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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029495">age-appropriate</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira'>xathira</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon &amp; Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossdressing, Other, Underage Drinking, competitive party games, kind of a shitpost, kind of crack, two teen boys being pissy with each other, various rowdy party guests</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:21:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029495</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A party at Jason Funderberker's house becomes a night of stiff competition and sloppy drunkenness.  </p>
<p>This is not exactly what Wirt signed up for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sara/Wirt (Over the Garden Wall)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the night begins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whiggity/gifts">Whiggity</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written as a stupid gift for the not-stupid Whiggity.  </p>
<p>Underage drinking bad, so on and so forth.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2325 Orchid Way: an address nestled in the affluent neighborhood that bordered the country club's golf course, separated from the common suburbs by trees and a sliver of meticulously groomed nature trails.  One big beautiful house of many big beautiful houses.  A colonial style mansion, with berry-red brick and froth-white columns and windows with corners so sharp they hurt your eyes.  Hedges trimmed to angles you could cut a finger on.  Flowers planted with such careful attention to detail they seemed fake, despite their cloying perfume.  Even at night, with garish party lights strobing colors across the lawn and a thunderous bassline rattling the glass, the estate boasted an infuriating amount of dignity. </p><p>Wirt had seen it once before, in middle school, when his nemesis Jason Funderberker invited the whole class to his (much tamer) birthday bash.  It was the grandest house Wirt had ever stepped foot in.</p><p>He hated it.  Passionately.  This too-perfect, too-put-together monument of wealth and order and privilege—</p><p>"Hey, Wirt?  What're you mumbling back there?"</p><p>Sara's teasing tone slipped through Wirt's inner (outer?) diatribe.  His face flushed as pink as the weightlessly balanced peonies in Funderberker's front garden, and he suddenly felt much hotter under his bike helmet.  </p><p>"Mumbling?  I'm not mumbling."  He cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted on his seat: a wire rack over the blue Schwinn's rear wheel, where a milk crate for Sara's books was usually bungeed.  In front of him, fingers drumming on her handlebars, Sara made an amused hum.  </p><p>"You wanna turn back, loverboy?  It's not too late to head to your place.  Or <i>mine.</i>"  She wiggled between the nervous hands Wirt squeezed her waist with and shot him a cheeky grin that promised her suggestion was half-serious and full-flirt; Wirt quickly moved his slick palms from Sara's sides to his jeans, so their sudden sweat wouldn't stain her tank top.  </p><p>“N-no.  I want to do this.  I <i>need</i> to do this.”  As he spoke, a couple stumbled from around the back of the house, arms linked and bodies teetering dangerously.  One girl leaned over mid-stride to vomit profusely into a prizewinning rosebush.  Her significant other hooted, impressed, and promptly puked all over her own shoes.  Wirt turned green.  “Oh, god… should we check on them or something?  I mean, I know it’s a party but—”</p><p>“You two good?” Sara shouted from the street.  The rosebush girl gave her a thumbs up without unbending from the waist to show that she’d heard, and Wirt’s girlfriend chuckled indulgently.  “Man, people must have pregamed before they got here.  Maybe we should have done the same.”</p><p>Now Wirt had to dodge Sara’s teasing elbows prodding backward into his butterfly-infested stomach.  He hopped off the bike, faking steely maturity, and unclipped his helmet.  “I’m fairly certain that it’s just as illegal to ride a <i>bike</i> drunk as it is to drive a <i>car</i> drunk.”</p><p>“Is it?” Sara asked, lofty.  She slid her helmet off as well and hung it over her handlebars; her hair, cut shorter than Wirt’s for senior year, spiked upward like the plume of a raptor—one million times cooler than Wirt could ever be.  She poked him in the stomach again for good measure and speared him with a smile that glittered more brilliantly than every firefly winking over the emerald lawn.  “You sound awfully law-conscious for somebody who’s about to consciously break the law.”</p><p>"Temptress," Wirt complained.  He linked their arms together and hoped the gesture came across as romantic rather than desperate.</p><p>Several cheers sprang up from the open windows at the pair as they wound up the cobblestone walkway to 2325’s front door.  Sara rang the doorbell—inspiring another explosion of cheers from deeper inside the mansion—and pecked Wirt on the cheek.  </p><p>“You’re going to drink water.  You’re going to eat snacks,” she coached him under her breath.  “I’m your DB for the night: designated biker.  If you want to leave, we’ll leave, but I <i>will</i> give you a hard time for chickening out.  Got it?”</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>“What are we here for?”</p><p>“P… partying?”</p><p>“We are here for <i>you,</i>” Sara said, tickling his chin, “because <i>you</i> wanted to do something ‘wild’ before we have to graduate next year.  So let’s get wild, my tame poet-soul.”</p><p>Their lips were centimeters from meeting when the crystal-paned door swung open.  Wirt yelped, instinctively clinging to Sara; Sara paused with one hand already dipped into the back pocket of his jeans; Jason Funderberker, resident of the prettiest house on the block and party host extraordinaire, gave an exuberant greeting that resembled too much of a goose’s honk for Wirt to handle.</p><p>“<i>Saaa-raaa!</i>  So glad you could make it!  Wirt… did your mom let you leave the house dressed like that?”</p><p>"What’s wrong with this t-shirt…?"</p><p>“Thanks for the invite, Funderberker,” Sara interjected politely.  She towed her boyfriend behind her over the threshold and whistled appreciatively at the sheer chaos reigning throughout the foyer.  Couples make out in dark corners; bodies writhed in the living room to a bass-heavy pop song; popcorn jumped toward the ceiling as people threw food and tried to catch it in their mouths.  Human beings everywhere, sound on full-blast, colors and lights, the reek of alcohol, it was a <i>lot,</i> it was too much—</p><p>Sara pinched Wirt's butt through his denim and he jumped back into the present.  “Happy to be here,” he croaked.</p><p>Funderberker reedily droned on and ushered them toward the kitchen to provide them with “completely age-appropriate drinks.”  Two iceboxes that Wirt believed he could fit inside (with room to spare) held a treasure trove of different alcoholic beverages, choices ranging from the cheapest aluminum cans to the sort of bottles Wirt’s stepdad bought as a special weekend treat.  A fence of stacked red solo cups on the kitchen island separated bowls of potato chips, Chicago-style popcorn, and veggie dip that nobody had touched yet.  Several boxes of pizza were already opened, the contents inside evidently massacred by hyenas.  Wirt’s stomach turned over.  Had he really begged Sara to take him here?  Because all of a sudden he recalled why he <i>fucking hated</i> the idea of huge parties—</p><p>“Something to get you started,” Funderberker smiled, handing off a cup to Wirt and his unfazed girlfriend.  “Since we start our last year of hell next week, we gotta celebrate!”</p><p>“What… is this?”  Light amber liquid fizzed and glittered as Wirt inspected it.  “Is this <i>champagne?</i>”</p><p>“Fancy-fancy,” Sara chirped appreciatively.  She drank from her cup as delicately as a hummingbird and waited for Wirt to do the same; at his disgusted sputtering, she had to chuckle.</p><p>“It’s pretty dry,” Funderberker mentioned belatedly, “usually something that more <i>mature</i> palates appreciate.  But never fear!”  He kicked at one of the ice boxes.  “I’m sure there’s plenty of Natty Light left over for you, if that’s more your level.  Or straight margarita mix.  Or Sprite, in the garage.  Maybe some skim milk?”</p><p>“Milk…?”  A powerful urge to dump the rest of his vile champagne on Funderberker’s spit-shined boat shoes thrummed through Wirt’s fingertips.  Maybe he’d take a handful of that greasy vegetable dip and toss it onto those ugly whale-patterned salmon-pink shorts—</p><p>“A tangerine harvest wheat for my boy, I think,” Sara mused, already rifling deeper into the ice.  Her swiss army knife popped the cap for him, and Wirt instantly felt the formless pressure in his chest diffuse.</p><p>"Of course!  I didn't mean to suggest that you can't handle a measly beer," weedled Funderberker, in a manner that very much insisted the opposite.  He went to slick his gelled hair back more, perhaps to check if any filament was out of place, but stopped at a call for his presence hollering from the living room.  Excitement clasped his hands together.  “You came just in time—sounds like they’re ready for us to join Spin the Bottle.”</p><p>“No,” said Wirt immediately, choking on his first swallow of beer.  “Hell no.  <i>No.</i>”</p><p>“Well, <i>duh.</i>  But we can still hang with everyone,” Sara amended.  “We can be social.”</p><p>“Sure sure sure, fine fine fine.”  Funderberker was already wandering into the living room, pouring himself more champagne as he went.  Wirt glared daggers through the back of that ostentatious haircut.</p><p>Sara hooked a finger through one of Wirt’s belt loops as if she were attaching a leash to a dog, and studied him through her eyelashes.  She had irises as black as polished jet, intelligent and intense, and Wirt felt she could read his thoughts as effortlessly as he flipped through the pages of a novel.  Rather than intimidate him, however, her perceptiveness reassured him that Sara would <i>always</i> be able to see through his bullshit.  “Yo… don’t let Funderberker get to you.   I don’t know what it is between you guys, but try to focus more on having fun than on our host.  ‘Kay?”</p><p>“I always forget how much I hate him,” Wirt whined.</p><p>A champagne-glazed smooch against his neck.  “Try to forget about it.  Maybe you two will be best buds by the end of the night.”</p><p>“Maybe.”  Wirt doubtfully kissed the top of his girlfriend’s head, and reluctantly followed Funderberker into the living room.  <i>Or maybe I'll die of alcohol poisoning first.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. spin the bottle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After he’d become slightly more outgoing late freshman year, it was not unusual to see Wirt at football games or school dances.  He was by no means “popular,” but he had a friend group… a <i>true</i> friend group: people he ate lunch with and saw movies with after school, faces he waved to on weekends at the park.  When he trailed after Funderberker and Sara into the high-ceilinged living room, several familiar voices heralded his approach.  </p>
<p>“Is that <i>Wirt?</i>”</p>
<p>“Yoooo, he really did come!  Well done, Sara!”</p>
<p>“H-hi, everybody,” Wirt returned weakly.  “Hope we didn’t uh, didn’t miss too much?  We’re not too late, r-right?  Does it matter if we’re late to a house party…?” </p>
<p>Why did the first game have to be Spin the Bottle?  Did everyone have to be <i>that</i> overt with their teenage horniness?  Wirt had been hoping for Beer Pong or Flip-cup—the kind of stuff 30-year-old actors playing highschoolers in films did.</p>
<p>“Wirt!”  Ashley Beakman, cross-legged near the center of the eggshell-colored carpet, waved her full plastic cup as if she were flagging down an airplane.  An empty Sam Addams bottle waited about three feet away from her; Wirt glanced down at it as if the glass contained a bomb.  “Over here!  Saved a seat for you guys, because I’m so nice.”</p>
<p>Not knowing where else to go, Wirt obediently folded his legs next to his fellow French student; Sara declined her offered spot, but tousled his hair on her way to stand next to the gorgeous white-marble fireplace.  He pointed to her sheepishly when several faces peered toward him, curious.   “We’re not playing.  Obviously.  Just… want to be involved.  Included?  Whichever doesn’t make me sound like a voyeur—” </p>
<p>“Who’s going first?” Funderberker asked his guests, plopping into a cream-leather armchair like a king settling onto his throne.  He crossed his legs at the ankle: obnoxiously comfortable. "If someone skips their turn to spin, they have to drink.  If someone gets chosen but passes, then <i>they</i> have to drink.  Cool beans?"</p>
<p>A girl Wirt had never met sprang from nowhere to start the game, scattering cups and a half-empty bowl of popcorn in her wake.  "Me, ohmygod, me!"  Her hot-pink manicured hand spun the bottle with such force it nearly helicoptered off the floor; seconds later, it landed on none other than that smarmy douchebag <i>Funderberker</i>—to the party’s uproarious approval.  Revulsion cramped Wirt's guts.  He would never understand why anybody, even a single soul, put up with with this personified yacht commercial.</p>
<p>Rather than drink, Funderberker shrugged and let the exceedingly enthusiastic chick pull him down for a loud smooch on the lips… which had Wirt prematurely chugging his tangerine wheat.</p>
<p>
  <i>It’s only the first game, I can do this, I can last until at least 1am…</i>
</p>
<p>Another girl after the first.  A boy from the football team.  A kid from Wirt’s trig class who joked lasciviously that the bottle had landed on <i>two</i> girls at once, and pretended to pass out from heartbreak when they both passed.  One by one those partygoers took their chances, until the next person in the loosely joined circle was...</p>
<p>"Sara—your turn," Funderberker prompted.  He straightened his posture a few increments, puffing his chest, and Wirt's fingers twisted into the sheep's wool carpet as if to tear it from the floor.</p>
<p>
  <i>Arrogant cocksure bantam-rooster little—</i>
</p>
<p>Sara tipped her head from where she leaned against the jamb of the fireplace and lifted a brow.  "Mm… I'm not in the playing circle, dude."</p>
<p>"It's a party!" Funderberker insisted.  "C'mon, join the game."</p>
<p>"Yeah, Sara, let loose!" crowed Elizabeth Holmes from where she draped over a furry white ottoman.</p>
<p>Ashley leaned teasingly into Wirt, about sloshing her drink into his lap.  "Your boy toy is playing—right Wirt?"</p>
<p>"No, we’re actually—"</p>
<p>"Yeah, Wirt's playing.  He sat in the circle."  Funderberker nodded as if this decided everything.  Wirt’s vision went solo cup-red.  "Roll the dice a little.  Maybe you two'll be into it."</p>
<p>The room sniggered good-naturedly at the host's nasal comment.  Blood rushed to Wirt's face—a heated cocktail of rage and humiliation—and he made as if to stand or throw the nearest piece of furniture at Funderberker’s face, but Sara was shrugging and sashaying to the center of the room to put her hand on the empty Sam Adams.  She spun the bottle.  Wirt’s stomach spun with it.  </p>
<p>After a full revolution in which Wirt felt as if he were getting sucked into a drain, Sara deftly stopped the bottle <i>herself.</i>  She’d pointed it directly at him.</p>
<p>“Look at that,” she declared, smooth as the foam on a rootbeer float.  “Guess we have to kiss, Wirt.”</p>
<p>“Aw, cheating!” someone complained from the back of the pack.  Sara flipped them the bird without glancing away from Wirt.  Funderberker grumbled as if to take up the argument himself, but Elizabeth extended her leg out as far as humanly possible from her repose to shove him into sullen silence.  No one else dared intervene as Sara reached over the bottle to tuck her fingers into her boyfriend’s collar.</p>
<p>She tugged him forward, and Wirt had to remember in what order to control his limbs to avoid face-planting.  Where was his beer?  Did he spill it?  Was he still holding it?  <i>Wow</i> Sara was hot when she took charge!</p>
<p>Wirt wriggled to sit less awkwardly on his knees, mouth dryer than Funderberker’s shitty champagne.  “W-we don’t have to, uh, you know, in front of…”</p>
<p>Her free palm cupped the back of his neck, steadying him.  Or preventing his escape.  Where would he even go?  Too many eyes burned his spine, too many witnesses, he probably looked so <i>so</i> stupid and inexperienced sweating in the middle of the rug among horny teens who had probably played Spin the Bottle five hundred times since freshman year—</p>
<p>“Cross this off your bucket list,” Sara smiled.  And kissed him.</p>
<p>Compared to what they’d been up to in private—at the park and in the movie theatre and behind that one bookshelf in the public library and <i>yes,</i> in the graveyard that <i>one time—</i>this kiss was positively chaste.  The sweetness of alcohol lingered warm between their shared breath.  Sara’s fingernails scratched lightly up Wirt’s nape to comb through his hair.  Her lids drooped shut, confident and comfortable, though Wirt could not bring himself to block out the flawless creases of her eyeliner.  She was kissing him.  <i>In front of God and everybody.</i>  As if they did this every day.  Fight-or-flight sizzled through him and of <i>course</i> he had to remember the third part of that sympathetic nervous response, the one that boiled low in his abdomen despite his conviction that the party would explode with laughter in three, two, one…</p>
<p>“Get a room already,” booed Tyler Cash.  A pingpong ball immediately sniped his head from the corner of Wirt’s eye in retribution.</p>
<p>“Shut <i>up,</i> Tyler.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, they’re frickin’ adorable.”</p>
<p>“Lovebirrrrrrds!”</p>
<p>Sara angled away, soft lips leaving a worry-cursed mouth of stone, and sarcastic but none-too malicious applause smattered the space.  “Done,” she said with a smart pat on Wirt’s flaming cheek.  “Now you are no longer a party game virgin.”</p>
<p>“Wait, wait, <i>wait.</i>”  Ashley looked… miffed? annoyed? from her seat behind the show, glaring muzzily at the dumbstruck boy with her cup tipped at a dangerous angle.  She <i>must</i> have finished her drink; otherwise the carpet was about to receive imminent libation.  “You’ve never played <i>party games,</i> Wirt?  Like, at all?  <i>Ever?</i>”</p>
<p>“That can’t be right,” Funderberker smirked.  “Everybody’s spun the bottle at least once.”</p>
<p>The high from Sara’s bold rule-breaking kiss deteriorated entirely.  Wirt instinctively ducked his head, one hand reaching back to cover the one Sara still had playing with his hair.  Shit, <i>shit.</i>  NOW they were all going to point and laugh.  Poor lame Wirt, never been to a real rager before, sheltered poet-boy who can count his close friends on one hand even <i>after</i> including his girlfriend and his younger brother… he wanted to die.  He needed to die.  Right now.</p>
<p>“I’ve never played,” Sara deadpanned.  Murmurs of speculation hushed at once.  She directed a frown at Funderberker, then at Ashley, raising a single unimpressed brow.  “You have to admit, it’s a stupid game.  Especially if you’re, ya know, already dating someone.”</p>
<p>Ashley squawked “Stupid?!” (yep, <i>totally</i> still beer in that cup) and Funderberker fidgeted uncomfortably at the possessive way Sara gripped Wirt’s shirt.  Wirt could sense everybody’s intrigue as if he’d been pinned under a microscope.  </p>
<p>“No drinking games, Wirt?” questioned a boy reclined upside-down on Funderberker’s white leather sofa.  His legs hung over the couch’s back and one of the ladies sitting on the floor was toying with the tight black coils of his scalp.  Wirt distantly recognized him as a junior, a kid who orbited the debate team and mathletes more often than he spent time with Funderberker or the rest of Sara’s friend circle.  To Wirt’s horror, he’d flipped out a notebook and was jotting something down.  “Kings?  Beer pong?  Flip cup?”</p>
<p>“No, no, and no,” Wirt admitted sheepishly.  Sara was now using both hands to play with his hair, the spin-the-bottle prop forgotten between their knees.  “I’ve never… I’ve never actually <i>drank</i> or had a sip of alcohol away from like a f-family gathering and…”</p>
<p>“And it’s not a big deal, and he just wants to see what it’s like,” Sara finished for him.  Her tone, firm and cool, promised a karate-chop to the throat for anyone that flustered her beau.  She nodded at the upside-down kid on the sofa.  “Yo, Brandon: any other suggestions?  Gotta break this newbie in.”</p>
<p>Wirt tried to untangle Sara’s wandering fingers from the cowlick at the back of his skull.  “You know what?  I’m good, I think, th-this was fine to start with, got my cherry popped—ha ha—I’ll just enjoy my beer and watch you guys—”</p>
<p>“Nahhh,” Funderberker drawled, staring directly at him with a dreadfully unreadable mask.  “We gotta ‘break you in.’  It’s my party, and as your host I <i>innnsisssst</i> you have fun.  So how’s about it?  New game, since Spin the Bottle is so… passe?” </p>
<p>Kathleen emerged from the coat closet by the front door as if on cue, a small box held aloft over her head.  “Guys—I found Catchphrase!”</p>
<p>The majority of room whooped and converged on the rug, forming loose half-circles that effectively fenced Wirt in the middle.  Sara maneuvered to sit next to him and looped an arm around his neck.  “This nerd is on my team.  Good luck, chumps.”</p>
<p>Funderberker shrugged and took the box from Kathleen as she passed him to join the ring.  Wirt decided he very much disliked where this was headed, though he’d gotten himself into this situation in the first place.  </p>
<p>
  <i>You’re going to have fun.  You’re going to act like a reckless teenager while you still ARE a teenager, you’re living your life to its fullest, damn it—!</i>
</p>
<p>“That’s fine, that’s fine.  Now, here’re the party rules...”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. catchphrase and twister</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After one beer, Wirt was not very good at Catchphrase.  After <i>two</i> beers, he was a freaking champion.</p><p>Sara had fetched him another fruity drink: a summery raspberry wheat that tasted like backyard picnics.  He nursed it as the game progressed in competitive fury; the alcohol seemed to unlock the part of his brain that’d been constipated by social fear, and suddenly the knack for word association that he usually utilized for creative writing was fully weaponized.  At last: something he was halfway decent at!</p><p>He described “humidity” as “hot summer air that sticks to one’s skin” (instantly figured out by Sara); “banana split” was “cheerfully smiling ice cream treat with cherries on top” (correctly guessed by Elizabeth).  At Funderberker’s bitter whine of “this isn’t a poetry slam, Wirt,” Wirt’s team rushed to his defense, heckling the other players and catapulting M&amp;Ms across the rug.  </p><p>His ability to <i>guess</i> phrases when it wasn’t his turn to read also infuriated their opponents.  The tipsier he became, the faster answers slipped from his tongue.  </p><p>“You learned to use one of these last year,” Sara said, locking eyes with him as she held the game disc.  </p><p>“Sewing machine.”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>Groans of pure suffering hailed from the opposing team.  “Did you learn to sew after you split the back of your shorts in gym class?” Funderberker sneered, snatching the disc for somebody on his own team.</p><p>“Were you checking out my ass?” Wirt snarked back.  His team peppered him in high-fives, which he returned with only vaguely diminished hand-eye coordination.  </p><p>“Um!” piped Kathleen, staring in wide-eyed panic at whatever prompt she’d unluckily drawn.  The timer ticking on the floor counted down to certain doom.  “When you feel something for someone else, it’s…?”</p><p>Tyler shouted, with absolutely no forethought, “A HANDJOB.”</p><p>“Love,” Funderberker answered next.  Kathleen shook her head, and his forehead creased.</p><p>“No, no, it’s not necessary an <i>emotion,</i> it’s the, like, the thing where you feel—”</p><p>“BONER.”</p><p>“NO, Tyler, what I mean is—”</p><p>The timer buzzed.  Wirt’s team all looked to him to steal the point that Funderberker’s band of morons had lost.  He pretended to think about it.  “Hmm… sympathy?”  </p><p>“Yeah,” Kathleen admitted lamely.  “It was sympathy.”</p><p>Tyler squinched his eyes, perplexed.  “How was it not ‘boner’?”</p><p>“You think Hasbro is going to use ‘boner’ as a Catchphrase answer?” Funderberker snapped.  He did not appreciate that his team’s early lead had been crushed by Wirt’s uncanny ability to pluck information from the morphogenetic field; the ruddy color in his cheeks, Wirt guessed, was not merely from an ethanol glow.  </p><p>Poor, losing Funderberker.  Wirt would feel <i>sympathetic</i> toward him if he weren’t busy riding the high of peer approval and raspberry wheat.  </p><p>The gradually blossoming wallflower accepted the disc from Kathleen and rotated to the next phrase.  He narrowly stopped himself from spitting beer on his lap, and covered his laughter with a badly muffled burp.  “Too bad your team didn’t get this one, Funderberker.  It was made for you.  First word: a famous historical figure, in possession of a single testicle—”</p><p>“Excuse me?” Funderberker blurted.  </p><p>“Hitler,” Sara cut in, merciless.  At Wirt’s negative head-shake, she switched.  “Napoleon.”</p><p>“Napoleon complex!” Brandon yelled.  He and Sara fist-bumped victoriously over Wirt’s head. </p><p>Wirt handed off the disc with a smirk and tallied another point, shoulders shaking with tenuously controlled giggles.  The pen felt more slippery than it had eight minutes ago… or maybe his fingers were slippery?  None of his tally marks were identical, each sloppier than the last.  “Two more rounds and we win.  Catchphrase is <i>easy.</i>”</p><p>Funderberker pitched his voice to be heard by Wirt alone as Samantha Boro haltingly tried to lead her team to a desperately needed point.  “Acting a little bolder thanks to that liquid courage, eh buddy?”</p><p>Wirt brought his voice to a hard whisper as well, wanting Funderberker to hear him clearly over the jamming chorus of Abba in the background.  “This is your Waterloo, Napoleon.”</p><p>“This is my <i>party,</i> good sir.”</p><p>“I know.  Thanks again for inviting me.”</p><p>“Technically, I invited <i>Sara.</i>”</p><p>Ringing in Wirt’s ears.  A fist-shaped coal in his stomach whose heat branded his face.  Wirt hadn’t heard that correctly, surely.  Funderberker invited the whole senior class to this bash, him included.  Not him <i>excluded.</i>  He had just as much a right to be here as anybody else—</p><p>“Earth to Wirt!” Brandon hollered.  “Kids play with…”  He mimed the shape of a brick.  Once another team member offered “blocks,” he pointed to his own head.  “Block…?”</p><p>“Blockhead,” Wirt fumbled.   </p><p>Funderberker made a high, annoying sound of amusement.  “Lucky!  That one was made for <i>you!</i>”</p><p>Mirth tittered from the other side of the room around the host, all the losers taking solace in Funderberker’s burn.  Wirt supposed he deserved that.  He lifted his beer bottle to his mouth, yet discovered it disappointingly empty, nothing but sour dregs at the bottom.  Sara darted off to fetch him another—and a glass of water—while he reminded himself repeatedly that these were his <i>friends,</i> it was simply harmless teasing, he’d brought this on himself when he went after the young man holding this party in the first place…</p><p>Wirt’s team flattened the competition in the end.  Not bothering to veil his irritation, Funderberker stood up and tossed the Catchphrase disc carelessly on the sectional sofa.  “Different game!” he demanded imperiously.  “Literally anything else.  <i>Not</i> Pictionary, Tyler.”</p><p>Ashley suggested Twister.  Two thirds of the party humbly declined, preferring to continue getting trashed while they spectated; the other third, Sara included, happily rolled out the polka-dotted mat after kicking away empties and stray popcorn kernels.</p><p>Wirt swayed when he stood to help his girlfriend straighten a corner.  “Am I drunk?” he asked her conspiratorially under his breath.  “I only had two beers.  I’m not <i>drunk,</i> am I?”</p><p>“Finish your water,” she told him gently.  “Then twist that long, bendy body of yours into a pretzel.”</p><p>“If you fall, you’re out, you drink,” Funderberker declared.  He’d removed his shoes… no socks on his feet.  <i>Boat shoes without socks?  So pretentious.</i>  “You switch with the next person, who takes your exact position.  Winner is the last person standing.”</p><p>
  <i>Technically, I invited Sara.</i>
</p><p>Wirt was going to win the hell out of this game.</p><p>Sara went first, palm slapping a red circle; an incredibly tipsy Elizabeth went second, with a foot on green; Funderberker glared coolly at Wirt and motioned <i>after you</i> to the spinner.  Wirt got a hand on blue, next to Sara’s.  Somebody changed the CD in Funderberker’s sound system to a generic party mix; Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” resonated from the speakers, through the floor, and into Wirt’s marrow like a miniature earthquake.</p><p>A redheaded boy from second period American History took over spinning duty.  He called out moves once the players contorted themselves too much to spin themselves—which was within five minutes of starting the game.</p><p>“Left foot green”</p><p>“Right hand yellow!”</p><p>“Right hand blue!”</p><p>“Left foot red!”</p><p>Sara swore as she was forced to snake under Wirt’s precariously bridged torso.  His noodly limbs quivered with the effort necessary not to collapse on top of her… to not react to the brush of her spine against his abdomen, or the smell of her hair so close to his perspiring face.  Elizabeth tangled too closely to his legs for him to risk making any more room for his girlfriend, however.  </p><p>And then there was Funderberker, body opposite and parallel to his, with an arm deliberately bent around one of Wirt’s so that if Wirt needed to reposition his left hand, he’d have to somehow shimmy that extremity upward without knocking over both Sara <i>and</i> Elizabeth simultaneously.</p><p>“Left foot yellow!”</p><p>Funderberker slid his foot backward and to the side, leaning closer to Wirt.  “Guess your lack of muscle comes in handy here,” the host muttered.</p><p>“Are you talking to yourself?” Wirt asked innocently.  “Sorry for eavesdropping.  But, yeah, <i>your</i> lack of muscle must be quite advantageous.”</p><p>“Left hand blue!”</p><p>Sara swore again.  A group of onlookers piled onto the couch cheered for her as she picked up her hand and wove it past one of Wirt’s.</p><p>“Right hand red!”</p><p>Elizabeth whimpered out an apologetic “Sorry, Wirt.”  She extended her forearm under and between his legs to hit the nearest, most convenient spot, propping her shoulder uncomfortably close to his posterior; Wirt’s hindquarters tensed and attempted to retract into his body; those watching from the couch proceeded to make predictable menage-a-troi jokes. </p><p>“Hey Liz, stay away from my man,” Sara teased.  She arched upward to nudge Wirt’s belly with her back like an affectionate cat and steam practically blew from his ears.</p><p>“Left hand green!”</p><p>“Shit,” Wirt spat.  If he could transfer his weight to his other arm and right leg and time this <i>just right...</i></p><p>He flipped his left hand through Funderberker’s trap and slammed his palm down across from his foe’s ankle.  The hasty action destabilized him dangerously—he jostled between Funderberker, Sara, and a squealing Eliabeth—but steadied himself after a shuddering breath.  </p><p>Funderberker scoffed.  “Impressive.”</p><p>“I’m f… flexible,” Wirt puffed.  </p><p>“You’d have to be flexible, what with how often you blow yourself.”</p><p>The meanness of that barb—whittled to fit between Wirt’s ribs and designed to pare away any doubt he still carried that Funderberker wanted him here—left Wirt stunned.  That wasn’t competitive banter, that was bonafide <i>hostile intent,</i> tuned to a low enough volume that Wirt would be crazy to call him out.  </p><p>Well.  No need to play nice anymore, apparently.  This <i>was</i> the last year of high school they’d have to put up with one another, Wirt supposed.</p><p>“Right foot green!”   </p><p>“Oops,” said Funderberker, foot thumping backward to “accidentally” crush Wirt’s knuckles.  Wirt cussed and toppled sideways into Sara—tossing them both flat onto the carpet and off the Twister mat.</p><p>He landed on top of his girlfriend in an unavoidably compromising position: knee between her thighs, hands on either side of her head, one of her legs hooked over his left calf.  The darkness of her razored hair was raven feathers on the snowiness of the carpet, her skin deliciously flushed, her mouth half-parted to laugh at their unexpected tumble and the sheer absurdity of their posture.  She threw her arms around his neck and shifted her hips suggestively, beaming at the catcalls of their classmates.  “Oh, my gracious.  It seems we have fallen in a rather <i>vulgar</i> manner.  How very inappropriate of us.”</p><p>Sara wanted him to laugh it off.  She didn’t want embarrassment to drown him, though it creeped up Wirt’s body like a rising tide, flooding chest and lungs and skull.  He cringed, instinctively, as if to fold himself into a ball.  To climb out of his skin to safety.  But Sara was here, Sara <i>was</i> his safety, she would never let him do anything to humiliate himself or have a bad time.  She had his back.  That’s why Wirt was here, with her.  Doing stupid shit he’d normally never do.</p><p>He kissed her.</p><p>His aim was all off, and he had to awkwardly smear his mouth over hers to establish a comfortable fit, but then the smolder of self-consciousness kindled into a lovely molten core in his stomach, untainted by shame.  They were <i>dating</i> for god’s sake: if Wirt wanted to make out with his significant other at a party, then he would.  He <i>was.</i>  Jesus Christ, he was making out with Sara like a drunken jock behind the bleachers after prom—  </p><p>They missed Funderberker getting knocked out of the game by Tyler, who hopped readily into the space Wirt left behind.  The amorous couple only came up for air when the couch brigade ordered them to drink their penalty.</p><p>Sara swirled her tongue around his as they parted.  She’d slid her fingers up the hem of his shirt, and spidered tickles over his stomach while he upended his beer and focused on not aspirating liquid and dying.  “Need a break, loverboy?”</p><p>“Yes,” Wirt gasped.  “More kissing, please.”</p><p>Nobody was using the coat closet by the guest room.  Sara introduced him to a modified version of Seven Minutes in Heaven, wherein neither of them kept track of the time.  Wirt possessed far less finesse in this state: his mouth was hungrier, kisses wetter and edged with impatient teeth, his hands groping in blind animal abandon that had Sara chuckling as she sucked a hickey into the junction of his shoulder and neck.  He might’ve utterly forgotten the party outside if not for a rude and unwelcome banging on the closet door.</p><p>Wirt sprang into the coats, embracing Sara as if to protect her.  His grip did not relax when the person outside the closet threw open the door to leer at them.</p><p>“We wondered where you two cats in heat slunk off to,” Ashley quipped.  “Come on—we’re starting Never Have I Ever in the kitchen.  I have a feeling Wirt here isn’t going to be as difficult to get hammered as we thought.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. never have I ever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A solo cup passed into Wirt’s hand as soon as he ducked into the kitchen.  Sara, with her arm slung around his waist, tested the drink before allowing her boyfriend to have a taste himself.  “Mm, cherry wheat,” she deduced.  “You’re getting the whole beer fruit basket tonight.”</p>
<p>“Cherry… or cyanide?” Wirt joked.  He blinked blurrily at the crowd packed sardine-like into the kitchen, having not caught who’d given him his latest imbibement.  “Anybody tryin’ to poison me?”</p>
<p>Funderberker, sitting on the kitchen countertop and swinging his legs against the ivory Shaker-style cabinets, unleashed a roar of a belch.  He held a wine glass that could only be described as a <i>chalice,</i> its glass etched with some delicate design that Wirt couldn’t comprehend from this distance.  Snowflakes?  Chevrons?  That same awful champagne filled it just centimeters from the brim.  “Aw, <i>Wirrrrt.</i>  I don’t think anyone would bother killing you with such an indirect approach.”</p>
<p>Sara quickly herded Wirt around the other side of the space, leaving the kitchen island between Wirt and the young man Wirt was currently glaring at.  Her tone lilted light and playful.  “Well Romeo, we both drank, so at least we’d die together.”  </p>
<p>“That play is so <i>ssstupid,</i>” Wirt growled.  “There are so many other b…<i>better</i> romantic tales—”</p>
<p>“Everyone’s in here, so we can start right?” boomed Tyler.  He sat on the breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the dining room and had an entire pizza box perched on his lap; one slice’s cheesy tendrils stretched halfway between the box and his mouth.  “Never have I ever smoked!”</p>
<p>“That has to be bullshit.”  Kathleen narrowed her eyes at the towheaded athlete and drank.  </p>
<p>The girl that Wirt had previously seen hurling on her own shoes (shoes which were noticeably absent) drank as well.  She sent Tyler a mischievous wink.  “Never have I ever tried to eat a cactus.”</p>
<p>“JASMINE, YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T SAY ANYTHING—”</p>
<p>Jasmine’s girlfriend, propped next to her, had to spit her drink out in the sink—or else risk spraying the party with booze.  Wirt valiantly managed to cover his knee-jerk laughter with an unstable burp.  “Tyler, you tried to eat a cactus?!  What kind?”</p>
<p>“I already drank so I don’t have to elaborate.  NEXT.”</p>
<p>“Never have I ever cried watching a sappy rom-com chick flick,” said the redheaded Twister kid, grinning knowingly at Tyler.  With a groan, Tyler shut his pizza box and drank again—along with both Jasmine, her beau, and Wirt.  </p>
<p>“Why does that not surprise me,” Funderberker drawled.  He tipped his head to the side, critically studying Wirt, and bounced one of his knees.  “So: which mawkish piece of cinematic garbage was it?  <i>Pretty Woman?</i>”</p>
<p>“It was <i>Titanic,</i>” Sara spoke up, defensive.  “Pretty much everyone with a functioning soul cried watching that one.”</p>
<p>At the naming of <i>Titanic,</i> the rest of the guests drank.  That is, all except for Funderberker; he rolled his eyes and sighed, doing what was—in Wirt’s humble opinion—an excellent impersonation of a bagpipe.  “Oh, please.  Leo could’ve fit on that door,” he griped.</p>
<p>As people muttered among themselves to come up with an equally successful “never,” Funderberker rotated his wrist so that his champagne left pale legs down the inside of his glass.  Humming through his nose he began, "Never have I ever... had a near-death experience."</p>
<p>Wirt frowned and took a drink.  From the corner of his eye he caught Brandon drinking too; the other boy grinned at him and held out his solo cup for a companionable cheers.</p>
<p>"No way—you too, man?" Brandon asked.  "What was it, if you don't mind me asking?  Mine was a car accident.  Eight years old."</p>
<p>He said it as if he were recounting an old victory—which, Wirt supposed, it <i>was.</i>  Being alive <i>was</i> a victory.  Some of the discomfort from Funderberker's weirdly specific prompt washed away in his buzz, and he cared less about the meaningful murmurs and glances tossed his way from the kids in his grade that remembered Halloween night three years ago.  </p>
<p>“Erm, f-freshman year.  Almost drowned.  Hey… am I talking too loud?  I feel like I’m <i>reeeeally</i> loud...”  </p>
<p>Sara’s arms hugged his waist and she nuzzled against his back.  “He saved his brother,” she stated loud enough to be heard by the kitchen crowd.  “Swims like a mermaid.”</p>
<p>“Mer<i>man,</i> Sara—”</p>
<p>“That river behind the cemetery, right?” piped up Tyler.  “I remember hearing about that, holy shit.”</p>
<p>Brandon cheers’d him again with more gusto.  “<i>Drowning?</i>  No way!”</p>
<p>“You got so much cooler after that,” Kathleen whined from the countertop.  “Like, that’s the fall you asked Sara out, right?  Or was that when we got back from winter break—”</p>
<p>Ashley cleared her throat obnoxiously from near the oven.  “Never have I ever snuck into the cemetery at night like a fuckin’ <i>creep.</i>”</p>
<p>If it was meant to be a sting, it missed its mark; Sara laughed out a jolly “Creeps, unite!” and swigged from Wirt’s cup after he’d taken his own penalty.  Then she stood on her tip-toes to smooch him behind the ear.  “Graveyards are <i>romantic...</i> with the right person.”</p>
<p>The game continued around the kitchen after everyone had a chance to ruffle Wirt’s hair or wolf-whistle, completely taken aback by the poet laureate of the class’s apparent game.  Only Ashely and Funderberker wore bitter masks… Funderberker’s souring further as he mulled over what his next shot would be.</p>
<p>Wirt had to drink for memorizing more than one Shakespearean sonnet (namely #24, #116, and #106), for riding a skateboard (once when he was ten, disastrously), and breaking a bone (related to the skateboarding incident).  Only after Sara coaxed him did he admit to eating dirt—“That was <i>one</i> time!  My brother dared me, okay!”—and Wirt suspected that their host wasn’t alone in attempting to get him as plowed as possible.  That possibility was… nice?  It was <i>nice</i> to be so wholeheartedly included, so effortlessly accepted by people he’d grown up with but always regarded as beyond him.  </p>
<p><i>They like me,</i> Wirt thought dazedly as Tylor chortled beer out of his nose.  <i>Have they always been this friendly, and I just never noticed?</i></p>
<p>He faltered to come up with a good enough “never” to impress his peers, too lost in musings and ethanol.  While he tripped over his marmalade-loose tongue, Funderberker interrupted him.</p>
<p>“Never have I ever lost my shit in the woods.”</p>
<p>Sara’s biceps tensed around her boyfriend.  A few people in the group caught her tension, the way Wirt suddenly crinkled his plastic cup in his hand, but she was the only individual among them who’d actually seen what Funderberker was referring to.  “Jason.  Not cool.”</p>
<p>“Issfine,” said Wirt with badly crafted flippancy.  He drained the dregs of his beer and shrugged at the confusion mixing on every side.  “Thanksgiving break.  Last year.  Thought I saw something in th’park over there.”  A careless hand flapped toward one of Funderberker’s tall dining room windows, out of which the metro park’s dark cathedral of oak and birch could be seen beyond the house-lights’ glow.  “Oops, out of beer guys—”</p>
<p>A fresh bottle of summer ale materialized in Funderberker’s hand.  He pushed it into Wirt’s grip to the cheering of his guests and layered his voice with sympathy so false it stuck to the back of Wirt’s teeth like burnt sugar.  “Didn’t you have a panic attack or something?  Sara had to come get you, didn’t she?”</p>
<p>Brandon let out a low whistle of <i>actual</i> empathy and sucked in air through his incisors.  “Ah, rough, I get those too sometimes…”</p>
<p>Sara squeezed Wirt so hard his lower ribs creaked.  “Jason,” she said again—dangerous-quiet, the perfectly level iciness that preceded her judo-flipping somebody to the floor.  “What are you trying to do?”</p>
<p>Funderberker <i>pshaw</i>’d and hopped off his counter to clap Wirt on the shoulder.  “No-thinnng!  Just trying to help Wirt get more acquainted with everybody.  It’s fun to learn about each other, isn’t it?  Especially if it’s <i>juicy.</i>”    </p>
<p>“Yeah, not every single person here has known Wirt since elementary school,” Ashley groused.  </p>
<p>Concerned, curious questions piled over her overt saltiness, and Wirt leaned back into Sara’s embrace like an animal backing into a corner for safety.</p>
<p>“What did you think you saw?”</p>
<p>“Is this like when you flipped out in the corn field?  Y’know, sophomore year, we all went to the maze with George before he moved—bro, I thought we’d need an ambulance or something—”</p>
<p>“This isn’t related to that deer you thought was following you over the winter, right?”</p>
<p>“Hold up, I’ve see spooky shit in the woods too, they’re haunted guys I’m <i>telling</i> you—”</p>
<p>“Never have I ever worn a dorky bow-tie to school,” Sara announced brightly into the crescendoing chatter.  Wirt blanketed one of her hands with his own in unspoken gratitude, both for the change in topic and for the pink of Funderberker’s ears as he drank.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, right when Wirt opened his mouth to concede he’d never seen the movie <i>Scream,</i> Funderberker leaped in with a vengeance.  “Never have I ever cried over a dead bird on the sidewalk.”</p>
<p>Sara released Wirt to step around him.  He had to fling an arm out to gently keep her back from locking their host in a sleeper hold until he collapsed.  “It was a bluebird,” he corrected solemnly, knocking back his ale after a beat.  “Th-they’re… really pretty birds.  Rare.  So it was… it was an extra shame.  You guys never…” Wirt covered a hiccup with the back of his knuckles.  “You never get ss<i>sad,</i> when you see an unmoving creature, discarded on the… the sidewalk like…”  <i>Shit.</i>  Real tears in his eyes.  Actual tears, damn this alcohol, he had no filter or walls to cower behind now that beer had dissolved them—</p>
<p>“He’s sensitive,” Sara defended bluntly.  “Why are you trying to embarrass him on purpose?”  </p>
<p>“It’s just a game,” Funderberker sniffed.  He indicated their audience with a sweeping, champagne-sluicing gesture.  “<i>We’ve</i> already played this game before, loads of times.  <i>Wirt’s</i> the one who needs the full party experience.”</p>
<p>“I can ha-handle it,” Wirt agreed tearfully, clumsily wiping the wet tracks on his cheeks.  </p>
<p>“See?”  Funderberker twisted out an unctuous grin.  A handful of players made noises of doubtful support, most of the others too deep in their drink to seriously care about whether Wirt’s emotional state was an emergency or simple inebriated weepiness.  Ere anyone else could take their turn, Funderberker slicked back his hair and delivered his last devastating blow: “Never have I ever… had a crazy sibling.”</p>
<p>Three people drank with knowing chuckles, glad that the game had apparently expanded to include the rest of them again now that Wirt had been properly razzed (“My sister is the WORST!” Ashley cried dramatically).  But Wirt was clenching the neck of his bottle with such force it might’ve shattered in stronger hands.  Funderberker’s smug countenance swam, smeared, blazed in his rage-focused stare.  </p>
<p>The taller boy lurched forward and wavered, kept upright by Sara’s touch on his shoulder.  “‘Fuck wuzzat, Funderber-<i>burgh</i>-ker?”</p>
<p>“A crazy sibling.  Never had one.  I’m an only child.”  Funderberker shrugged as if that explanation could shellac the spiteful intention behind his statement, could gloss it over into something that Wirt could overlook.  Except Wirt was mad enough to <i>puke</i> and he was honestly considering how much of his host’s pretentious, Vineyard Vines shorts he could destroy by unhinging his jaw…</p>
<p>“My brother is <i>n-not</i> crazy.”  Not vomit, but an assertation just as acidic, one that burned Wirt’s tongue on the way out and hushed those close enough to hear his lowered voice.  “You f...f-fuckin’ take that back.”</p>
<p>Funderberker sneered.  Slurped his champagne insultingly slow.  Blinked.  “I never said he was.  I just said that <i>I</i> never had a crazy sibling—one who, say, talks to cats and pumpkins and frogs and whatnot like they can understand him, or… has gone missing more than once, only to turn up covered in dirt, or… who traumatized the second grade with ghost stories he <i>promises</i> are real—”</p>
<p>Sara quietly released his shoulder.  Wirt lunged for Funderberker.  His bottle of ale clanged to the white kitchen tile, spurting liquid over peoples’ shoes; Funderberker lost the remainder of his champagne over the glittering granite countertops; half the other guys shouted <i>“Fight!”</i> while Brandon and Tyler rushed to separate Funderberker and Wirt; girls screamed, the Backstreet Boys CD skipped, and Wirt abruptly realized that the reason his uncoordinated punches were swishing uselessly in the air was because his arms were being pinned behind him.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, hey,” said Brandon, using the same tone one might use to soothe a startled horse.  “We’re cool, we’re cool.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Wirt.  We’re cool,” smirked Funderberker.  The best Wirt had managed before he’d been restrained was mussing that stupid button-up shirt a bit.  “You can check ‘drunken brawl’ off your party list too, right?  All part of the grand experience!”</p>
<p>Wirt blinked stupidly at him.  Was he spinning?  <i>Stop the room please, I want to get off.</i></p>
<p>“That was on <i>purpose?</i>” asked Tyler, quizzical.  He looked Wirt up and down and warily let him go—in awe that this scrawny, literature-loving pacifist had harbored a red-blooded fighter all along.  </p>
<p>Sara snorted.  “It’s Funderberker’s party.  If he wants to get his ass kicked <i>on purpose,</i> so be it.”</p>
<p>Funderberker brushed her scorn off, addressing the partygoers as if they’d all been in on a great joke.  “It was all in good fun, promise.  We’re seniors—what a shame it’d be to not carpe the diem!  So, Wirt: you up for another game?  Or are you properly plastered for the night?”  </p>
<p>As if Wirt would give this haughty shit-talking <i>goose</i> the satisfaction of leaving.</p>
<p>“New game,” Wirt gritted out.  “I’m ready for a different game.”</p>
<p>“I think it’s time we go home, as a matter of fact,” Sara argued.  She stepped in front of him, palms on his chest.  “This was fun and all, but you’re <i>plenty</i> drunk, boyfriendo.  Time for hydration and sleep.”</p>
<p>“He wants to play another game,” crowed Funderberker.  “Let him!”</p>
<p>Nobody else said a word.  The atmosphere was thick as a jello shot and quivering with anticipation.</p>
<p>Ashley was the one who broke the lull.  </p>
<p>“Truth or Dare,” she challenged, eyes glinting.  </p>
<p>Despite Sara shaking her head, Wirt and Funderberker answered simultaneously, “I accept.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. truth or dare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Conference time,” said Sara, grabbing Wirt by the hand.  She hauled him roughly out of the kitchen, past the dining room, and beyond the sliding glass door that led into a small sunroom and then the backyard.  </p><p>The cool summer night air was a welcome splash to Wirt’s face.  He gasped in the scent of leaf-rot and garden flowers and honeydew humidity, all a mouthwatering reprieve from pizza grease and the fermented reek of beer.  Fireflies flickered yellow-green in the dark.  A small halo of light from the mansion outlined the stubble of the lawn and the profile of Sara’s face… the downward arch of her lips, the furrowed forking of her eyebrows…</p><p>“I made you mad,” Wirt realized.  His words were peanut-butter-thick, slathered to the roof of his mouth.  He was simultaneously lagging behind cognitively and also <i>much too aware</i> of how badly his thoughts had slowed.  If he weren’t so fucking <i>tanked,</i> he would’ve noticed Sara’s unhappiness sooner.  “Funderberker pissed me off… I’m s’sorry.  He wuzz sayin’... some <i>mean</i> shit though—”</p><p>“He’s being an asshole.”  Sara meant to growl it, but her voice broke on the curse.  “He shouldn’t have said anything about Greg.  He shouldn’t have said <i>any</i> of that bullshit, but definitely…”  She quickly wiped at her eyes, and Wirt instinctively enfolded her in a hug.</p><p>“S’okay,” he told her.</p><p>“Except it’s not.  Jason <i>knew</i> we were both coming.  He said he was cool with it.  If I’d known he was going to use this as an opportunity to—to have some lame pissing contest I would’ve—<i>ugh.</i>  I would’ve just brought a six pack to your place.  We could’ve avoided Mr. McMansion dragging up your past in front of our friends.  This isn’t <i>fun.</i>”</p><p>Oh.  <i>Sara</i> was the one feeling guilty?  </p><p>That simply wouldn’t be tolerated.</p><p>“Lissen up.”  Wirt squinted and tried again, rolling his tongue around the inside of his teeth.  “<i>Listen</i> up.  Listen.  Listen to me, Sara.”</p><p>She gave a watery chuckle.  “Listening.”</p><p>“I hate Funderberker.  He hates me.  But it’ssokay, because I have not paid for a <i>single</i> beer while I’ve been here.  Not even <i>one.</i>”  Wirt held up an index finger to illustrate his point.  He then attempted to boop Sara on the nose with it, but missed and squished the dimple adjacent to her tentative smile instead.  “I wanted to party.  And I am partying.  I am kicking ASS tonight.  Aren’t I?!”</p><p>“Yes.  You are the king of asskicking.”</p><p>“I <i>have to</i> do Truth or Dare before we leave.  Gotta.  Because parties are awful, and I’m nnnnnever doing this ever again.”  Wirt went to hold Sara’s face tenderly between his hands, and wound up just sort of awkwardly patting her cheeks and ears.  She helpfully guided his palms where they needed to go.  He miraculously touched their foreheads together without giving her a concussion.   </p><p>“I don’t care if Funderberker’s shitty to me,” the extraordinarily drunk poet continued, deeply honest.  “This isn’t about him.  I’m finally getting able to… to be an idiot with everybody else.  And Funderberker can’t ruin it because those are my real buds in there.  And you’re with me, too.”</p><p>“That almost made sense,” Sara whispered.  </p><p>“Yeah.  It almost did.” </p><p>She tactfully drew away, brushing her knuckles under his chin as she did so.  After a steadying breath through her nose, Sara plopped her hands on her hips and considered her beau from the corner of her vision.  “So, Boy-Gone-Wild… you want to Truth or Dare the pants off Funderberker as your last hurrah?”</p><p>“Maybe literally,” Wirt answered, nodding.</p><p>“Okay.  Cool.  We’ll let you go out in a blaze of glory, and then it’s <i>home</i> and <i>bedtime</i> for you.  Your delicate body wasn’t made to handle all-night raging.”</p><p>“You <i>know</i> what my delicate body was made for,” leered Wirt.  Unfortunately, his girlfriend was too fleet for his inappropriately grasping hands, and eluded him until they’d crashed their way back indoors.  </p><p>The party had conglomerated around the long dining room table while they’d been out.  Funderberker sat at the head of the table, chin propped on his villainously steepled fingers; the other guests flanked him in each seat; those who couldn’t sit themselves crowded between and behind the chairs.  All eyes raked up to Wirt and Sara as they entered.  Wirt did not have to ask if anyone else was going to play this last game.</p><p>This was between him and Funderberker alone.</p><p>“Did you get lost?” Funderberker simpered.  His snobby glass chalice had been refilled with a garnet-colored wine that reflected veins of scarlet on the table’s mahogany surface; a solo cup of the same wine awaited Wirt at the empty chair directly opposite Funderberker.</p><p>“What’re the rules?” Wirt snapped back.  He threw himself into his chair—veered perilously close to diving headfirst into the floor—and recovered, slamming back a hearty gulp of wine.  Instantly his mouth puckered; why did Funderberker prefer all his alcohol so horrifically <i>dry?</i></p><p>Funderberker ran a fingertip idly along the lip of his glass.  “If we refuse to answer a Truth, or refuse to do a Dare, we have to drink.  And then we have to do the alternative.  So if I ask you a Truth and you decline, you drink and then are required to do the Dare.  If I Dare you—”</p><p>“I dare you to shut up,” said Wirt pugnaciously.  Sara horse-laughed and bit down on her knuckles to keep herself in check.</p><p>“I’ll begin the game,” Funderberker answered loudly over the sniggers of their audience.  “Wirt: Truth or Dare?”</p><p>He’d already shown what a sap he was earlier; Wirt figured there wasn’t much more dirt for Funderberker to throw on him, or fresh secrets to bring to light.  “Truth.”  </p><p>Funderberker’s upper lip curled.  “When did you lose your virginity?”</p><p>Wirt’s eyebrows bounced upward.  “Funderberker, don’t you already know?  Your mom promised me she’d tell you—”</p><p>The dining room <i>exploded.</i>  Absolute shrieks of laughter threatened to shatter the windows and sliding door as Funderberker’s mask turned pink, then red, then <i>purple…</i></p><p>“You’re supposed to tell the truth,” he snarled.  “Take a fucking drink.”</p><p>“Sure thing… <i>son,</i>” Wirt added, prior to swallowing.  Tyler Cash howled from where he’d fallen helplessly to the floor.  Several others around the table were about to join him if they couldn’t force air into their lungs soon.  </p><p>Funderberker’s clenched fist struck the glossy veneer next to his chalice.  “Play the game right, or don’t play at all, <i>Wirt.</i>  When. Did. You. Lose. Your. Virginity.” </p><p>“This April.”  Wirt shrugged blithely at the all the dropped jaws facing him.  “Sara and I wanted to wait and just… enjoy dating.  We actually… we actually have <i>fun</i> when we hang out.  Right?”  He looked to his significant other, leaning against his chair.  She squeezed his shoulder supportively; luckily for Funderberker, Sara was not the type to get embarrassed or scandalized by questions pertaining to her (safe and consensual) sex life.</p><p>Otherwise, Wirt would need to end the game early and break Funderberker’s jaw.</p><p>“How disappointing.  I’d have thought you two were going at it like rabbits since sophomore year,” Funderberker droned. </p><p>“We’ve been making up for lost time,” Wirt replied breezily.  Sara smirked like a shark.  “Anyway, Funderberker… Truth or Dare?”</p><p>“Truth.”</p><p>“Hmm… what do you masturbate to?”</p><p>A squawk of a laugh that stabbed Wirt’s eardrums.  “Not my own poetry, unlike <i>you.</i>”  Funderberker went ahead and drank his penalty to another ring of cackling that rippled across the table.  </p><p>“Are you opting for Dare, Funderberker?”  Wirt questioned.  The poetry put-down did not affect him as much as he’d prepared for… it was too predictable.  That, or he’d drunk himself past the point of giving a damn.  “Don’t want to share your illicit fantasies with your peers?”</p><p>“If I share them, they’ll be ruined.  Give me a dare,” Funderberker agreed.  But Wirt hated the way his foe’s attention lingered on Sara for a millisecond too long.</p><p>“I dare you to put a finger up your nose for the rest of the game.”</p><p>Disappointment sobered most of the group at this tame dare… until Wirt encouraged Funderberker to all but ram one of his fingers into his chosen nostril.  The sight of their host apparently picking his nose—and the exacerbated nasal quality of his voice, increased to <i>cartoonish</i> heights—had half the table trembling as they pushed down their immature giggles.  </p><p>“Is this enough for you, Wirt?  Have I satisfied your second-grade humor?” trumpeted Funderberker.    </p><p>Wirt was having trouble catching his breath.  “Y… <i>yes.</i>  Oh my god, you sound like a <i>muppet.</i>”</p><p>“Okay, screw you.  Truth or Dare?”</p><p>Wirt didn’t want to be the coward in this showdown.  “Dare.”  </p><p>“Point to the person in the room you’d most want to have sex with.  <i>Not</i> Sara.”</p><p>Wirt drooped in his chair, chin pointed toward his sternum.  “I can’t.  She isn’t here.”  A slurp of his gross shoe-polish-and-grapes wine while Funderberker stared at him.  “Your mom, I mean,” he clarified.</p><p>Tyler screamed.  Funderberker rolled his eyes toward the fancy crystal lighting fixture shimmering from the ceiling.  “This is getting nowhere,” he honked.  “You’re gonna forfeit if you can’t play the right way.”</p><p>“Whatever,” Wirt moaned.  And pointed to Tyler.  </p><p>The people bunched around Wirt whistled suggestively and clapped as Tyler preened, supine on the tile.  Before Funderberker flung his chalice against the wall in frustration, Wirt shrugged and blushed, determining that honesty would not wreck his reputation among a cohort that had done nothing but back him or amicably tease him the entire time he’d been here.  “I’ve never… wanted to sleep with anybody except Sara.  I dunno why.  But if I had to do it for the novelty of experience, I’d probably go with Tyler.  He seems like he’d want to try new things.  What with the cactus fiasco—”</p><p>“I’m never forgiving you, Jasmine,” Tyler groaned.  Jasmine and her girlfriend, standing on either side of his head, could do nothing but cheers their endorsement of Wirt’s choice.  </p><p>Funderberker opted for dare on his next turn.  In the following chaos, anyone not currently involved in the competition—the stragglers making out upstairs, the quieter guests hanging out by the stereo, the loons carrying on the abandoned game of Twister—filtered into the spectating mass and divided into enthusiastic teams.  </p><p>Team Wirt heckled Funderberker as he deigned to eat the rest of the substantial veggie-dip bowl with his bare hands.  Each scoop of chunky speckled cream-cheese goop was met with theatrical gagging sounds and overacted dry-heaving, all done in hopes of pressuring a green-faced Funderberker into quitting… but when their host picked up the bowl to lick it clean, it was Wirt who earnestly needed to hold back his own vomit.  </p><p>Team Funderberker thought that Wirt stuffing one his socks in his mouth until after his next turn was appropriate karma.  In spite of his shuddering, eye-watering aversion, Wirt girdled his loins and obliged—requiring Sara to translate the dare he mumbled for Funderberker around a wad of filthy wool.    </p><p>“You’re like a disgusting little garbage hamster,” Funderberker taunted.  Yet the irony of him sliding his arm up to his armpit in the overflowing kitchen trash bin made the flavor of Wirt’s personal sweat much easier to stomach.</p><p>Wirt had to stand on the table and use his shoe as a microphone to belt Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time.”  The wild applause from his girlfriend—his <i>team</i>—inspired him to improvise a talentless but spirited dance routine that ended with him stretched out on his side across the mahogany and blowing a kiss to Funderberker.  Not a soul questioned how he knew every lyric by heart.</p><p>Funderberker had to wash off his trash-plastered arm in the downstairs toilet.  Wirt loomed over him in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, and made no effort to disguise how profoundly he enjoyed the sight.</p><p>“Yeah Funderberker, really get in there.  I think you still have some pizza sauce on your elbow.”</p><p>“Hey, Wirt,” Funderberker retorted, flicking toilet water off his fingertips.  “I dare you to kiss my hand.”</p><p>Wirt pursed his lips.  This game was about mortification, a dance of domination, and neither wanted to show their belly.  Sara grimaced sympathetically, but did not try to prevent Wirt from puckering up and laying one on Funderberker’s wet knuckles.  “Of course, my lavatory liege.”  </p><p>Moving outside, Wirt was dared to boomingly proclaim “I AM THE PRINCE OF THE FOREST!” to the echoing, lonesome metro park.  His fists punched up toward the round silver-shuttered spotlight of the half moon; his team yipped like coyotes and hoisted him on their shoulders, chanting “long live the king!” until Wirt dared Funderberker to jam fistfulls of muddy leaves into his underpants.  Funderberker refused—partook in more wine—and chose Truth.  Everyone that night learned that their host had a kink for popping balloons.</p><p>At approximately half past one A.M., Sara petted Wirt’s sweat-damp hair and cajoled him into finishing off a bottle of cold water.  They’d all meandered back into the mansion, its contents turned upside down and thrown about in a frenzied tornado of bacchanalian celebration.  Wirt counted, with malicious satisfaction, a number of new stains blossoming on Funderberker’s rugs and carpet like mold.  Red wine and blue raspberry vodka, popcorn butter and smudges of dirt… “Funderberker’sssgonna get in so much <i>trouble.</i>”</p><p>“My family has a carpet cleaner,” Funderberker protested.  He’d fallen back into his gigantic arm chair in the living room, his team spread about him: his adoring court.  Ashley fanned his face with a magazine while he struggled to polish off his own water bottle.  A finger was no longer constantly in his right nostril, but Wirt had forgotten about that dare about four turns ago.  “Though I could always dare you to lick it all clean.”     </p><p>“We’ll probably be heading out,” said Sara, tucking one of Wirt’s longer locks behind his ear.  “Great party, Funderberker.”</p><p>“You’re <i>done?</i>” Funderberker gasped incredulously.  Members of both his and Wirt’s team cupped their hands around their mouths and booed.  “We haven’t declared a winner yet!”</p><p>“Yeah, Sara, we haven’t declared a winner yet,” Wirt wailed.  In a fierce murmur he added, “Let me <i>crush him.</i>”</p><p>“My sweet, competitive boy, I should get you home while you’re still conscious enough to ride a bike with me—”</p><p>“I dare you to take your shirt off, Funderberker.”  Wirt smirked evilly, certain he’d found his opponent’s weak spot, his limit, the thing that their host would outright balk at in favor of a merciless, reputation-wrecking truth.</p><p>Except Funderberker pulled his top over his head with nothing more than mild annoyance at having to mess up his hair a tad.  Balling the shirt up to rest in his lap, he frowned at Wirt.  Unimpressed.  “Devastating move, Wirt.”</p><p>Sara fluttered by Wirt’s left shoulder and cupped a hand around his ear, expression purposefully neutral.  “Babe.  If you’re not going to leave with me… can you maybe try a little harder?  That was… not the best dare I’ve ever seen.  A little cliche, if I’m being honest.”</p><p>Wirt hissed back, panicked, “I thought that would unravel him!  I mean, getting undressed in front of everybody?  At a <i>co-ed</i> party?!”</p><p>“You’re the only boy who’s that self-conscious about your nipples,” Sara lamented.  “We’ve all been to the community pool, bud.  You might as well have asked him to take his shoes off.  And you <i>did</i> dare him to stick his arm in the toilet earlier, so...”</p><p>“Then what am I going to do?  I can’t ask him to stand out in traffic—”</p><p>“I dare you to strip,” Funderberker interjected, “and put on my mom’s clothes.”</p><p>A low chorus of <i>ooooooo</i> rose the hairs at the back of Wirt’s neck.  Sweat beaded at his temples, in his armpits, and a void opened where his stomach should be.  Fighting the tackiness of his tongue, he leaned forward, hands on his knees, to determine whether Funderberker had grown devil’s horns while he blinked.  “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Take off the clothes you’re wearing, and put on my mom’s clothes.”  Funderberker repeated himself as if explaining a simple concept to a kindergartener.  “In fact, I’ll give you an alternate dare: streak down the road.”</p><p>Wirt paled.  “Those… those both s-sound sadistic—”</p><p>“Are you yielding?”  Funderberker perked upright, glee lighting up his features.  “Because those are your options, prettyboy.  No Truth.  Dress up like a lady, or sprint buck naked outside.  Or <i>quit.</i>”</p><p>“Never,” said Wirt, to the ebullient delight of his teammates.  Sara’s half defeated, half affectionate sigh fell on deaf ears.  She slapped him bracingly on the butt when Wirt stalked toward the grandiose staircase and bowed, indicating that Funderberker should lead him to the second floor.  “Come on, then.  Take me to the closet.  I want to see what I’ll be working with.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>two more chapters of drunken shitpost to go!</p><p>this is longer than most of the serious fics I've written!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. dress up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For a moment, Funderberker was daunted by Wirt’s fearlessness.  He hesitated in his cushy armchair, flattened by the feverish wildness in his opponents pupils.  A spark of uncertainty darted over his recently smug features.  Wirt, the kid who nearly passed out during his orchestra audition, wasn’t refusing the Dare.  Wirt—neurotic, anxious, self-conscious, sweaty, <i>weedy-limbed</i> poet-nerd—was facing the host of the party as if it were <i>Funderberker</i> who had something to lose by pressuring Wirt into a skirt.</p>
<p>This was the kind of crazy that had driven Wirt to run into traffic to rescue a stray cat three weeks ago, the crazy that once spurred him to climb up the tallest tree in the park to convince his little brother to come down—despite Wirt being unable to drag himself up a rope in gym.  This was the unexpected, tenacious crazy that must have pulled him from a river that should have snap-frozen his muscles and paralyzed his lungs.</p>
<p>Frankly, it gave Funderberker the willies.</p>
<p><i>“Well?”</i> Wirt huffed impatiently.  “Am I going to have to find your mom’s drawers myself?”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you pretty well acquainted with his mom’s drawers?” Tyler called out.  Team Wirt assaulted Team Funderberker with a barrage of jeers and thumbs-down, unwilling to let the joke evaporate.  </p>
<p>“I’m <i>coming,</i> god,” Funderberker growled, pushing himself off his seat to meet Wirt by the steps.  He buried his misgivings with an extra dose of nastiness.  “You’re sure in a rush to change your panties, aren’t ya Wirt?”</p>
<p>Sara pumped her fist in the air to rile up Wirt’s team.  “Show him the closet, Funderberker!  Clo-set, clo-set!”</p>
<p>The others took up her chant—including members of Team Funderberker.  Demands of <i>“clo-set, clo-set, CLO-SET”</i> surged with every rabid repetition.  Exhaling indignantly through his nostrils, Funderberker shoved beyond Wirt to march up the stairs, careful to keep one hand on the railing so as not to tumble backward into his competition; their loyal followers scampered behind them like overeager, drunken puppies hoping for treats.</p>
<p>Wirt crossed his arm upon entering the magazine-ready bedroom of Funderberker’s parents.  He nodded gravely at the neutral-toned geometric wallpaper, the pristinely made bed with its satin gold damask sheets and gratuitous array of decorative throw pillows.  “Ah, yes… the bed upon which I relinquished my virginity.  Seems like only yesterday I was giving it to your mom good, acting the part of virile young Romeo to her thirsty Juliet—”</p>
<p>“WE GET IT, YOU ‘BANGED MY MOM,’ HAHAHA SUCH A FUNNY JOKE.”  Funderberker stalked to the walk-in closet at the back of the room without craning his head to acknowledge Wirt’s tiresome stupidity or the tittering of his so-called friends.  His patience had extinguished hours ago; now Funderberker rifled through his mother’s wardrobe with vicious single-mindedness.  Wirt was wrong not to be afraid.  Funderberker planned to positively <i>ruin</i> his foe, to strip him of the last vestiges of his paltry dignity at the very cusp of their senior year.  No one would be able to look at the mop-headed fool without imagining him in whatever skimpy nightmare Funderberker picked…</p>
<p>A pair of thigh-high stockings whipped across the room to smack Wirt in the face.  He caught the silky things as they slithered from his nose—just in time for one of Funderberker’s mom’s “date night” specials to sling itself over Wirt’s outstretched arms.</p>
<p>Wirt gawked down at the fabric.  A fragment of consternation broke through his bravado.  At his back, teenagers crowded in the hall and in the doorway—hungry to catch every second of action.  Those close enough to see what Wirt held made audible noises of masochistic joy and empathetic concern.</p>
<p>“Funderberker,” Wirt squeaked, “really?”</p>
<p>Funderberker flung a few more choice articles: a lacy bra and garter belt, a mink fur stole, and a pair of stripper heels.  These last things Wirt did not attempt to catch, as doing so would mean to risk losing an eye on the stiletto point of a red-soled shoe.  Wirt tossed his head back, whining.  “Dude.  <i>Really.</i>”</p>
<p>“Yes, Wirt, really.”  The host strode from the closet and dusted his hands off as if he’d spent an afternoon excavating a temple.  He proudly eyed the outfit scattered over and around his enemy, heart soaring as he imagined it fully assembled.  Oh, this would be burned into shared high school consciousness for years to come… <i>if</i> Wirt went through with it.  “Having second thoughts, pal?  Not too late to give up and hand over the win.  You don’t <i>have</i> to do anything you don’t want to do.”</p>
<p>Wirt hugged the dress to his stomach, mask hollow.  “No.  I’m doing this.”</p>
<p>“Your funeral,” Funderberker sing-songed.  </p>
<p>Sara slipped through the audience into the bedroom; her eyes got enormous upon witnessing Wirt’s costume up close.  A low whistle rose from her lips as she picked the bra from where it dangled on Wirt’s wrist.  “I’m impressed,” she said.</p>
<p>Funderberker propped his weight against one of the nightstands by the bed and inspected his nails.  “What, of my ability to coordinate patterns?”</p>
<p>“Nah,” Sara shook her head.  “That you know <i>exactly</i> where all your mom’s underwear is.”</p>
<p>Wirt brayed at this observation—“You’re <i>right,</i> he <i>did</i> find all of this quick”—and Sara cut Funderberker a sassy wink.  Fury injected the blood vessels in Funderberker’s eyes.  He slapped his palm on the nightstand, jarring the swan-shaped lamp, and jabbed a finger at the snickering pair.</p>
<p>“I do laundry when my mom is busy—that is NOT something to be embarrassed about!”</p>
<p>Sara put a hand to her heart, her other arm hung around Wirt’s trembling shoulders.  “That’s not what I’m saying, man!  Being domestic is awesome… I’m just a little <i>suspicious…</i>”</p>
<p>Leering murmurs from the hallway.  A pointed “mama’s boy” comment, muffled behind a wall of bodies.  Funderberker gritted his teeth to screech.  <i>Wirt</i> was the one who was about to be utterly humiliated, the one who would wake up tomorrow with his skin imprinted by lingerie and a hangover to rule all hangovers.  He might be laughing <i>now,</i> but <i>Funderberker</i> would savor victory well into his sophomore year at Harvard.  </p>
<p>“Get dressed,” the host ground through his molars.  </p>
<p>Wirt’s eyebrows arrowed downward.  “Uh… nnnno.  Not in fron’of ev’rybody.  That wasn’t part of the dare.”</p>
<p>Funderberker smacked the lampshade on his way to steamroll spectators out of the bedroom; many complained, yet resigned themselves to waiting in the hallway for Wirt’s fabulous reveal.  Only Sara stayed behind to assist Wirt with his wardrobe change.</p>
<p>Sara… and Funderberker.</p>
<p>Wirt stared at him dumbly.  Sara was protectively suspicious.  Funderberker curled his lip and leaned his back into the bedroom door to discourage anyone from barging in.  “What?  I don’t trust you two sluts not to defile the mattress.  My mom and stepdad <i>are</i> coming home in three days.”</p>
<p>Wirt blurted “Great idea” at the same time Sara deadpanned a reassuring “Gross.”  Then she glanced at Wirt, walking her fingers up his chest toward his throat.  “Unless… you want to, babe.”</p>
<p>When Wirt began to lean down for a kiss, Funderberker tossed his hands skyward.  “Hello!  Make like a lady, or get the hell out of my house!”</p>
<p>The lovebirds drew away from one another, contrite.  At Wirt’s glare, Funderberker grunted and turned around to face the door, allowing his nemesis some modicum of privacy.</p>
<p>The first to go was Wirt’s shirt.  Mistrustful eyes kept sneaking agitated peeks at Funderberker’s hunched shoulders, so Sara had to pinch him firmly by the chin to refocus him.  “Nobody can see your nipples but me, handsome.  They’re <i>all mine.</i>”  She skated her palms languidly down the bony plane of Wirt’s chest to his waistband, ignoring Funderberker’s exaggerated gag of disgust.  Wirt shivered—simultaneously terrified of anyone seeing him and turned on by his girlfriend’s brazenness—and struggled to undo the top button of his pants.</p>
<p>Sara clucked impatiently and did this step for him as well, going so far as to zip down his fly.  Although he wasn’t watching what was happening, Funderberker could hear Wirt’s jagged intake of breath.  “What did I say about you <i>sluts</i> and <i>defilement?</i>”</p>
<p>“You were referring to the mattress,” Sara quipped, tugging on Wirt’s belt loops.  Once his jeans had slumped halfway down his butt, Wirt lost his balance and tripped backward—right onto the bed.  Funderberker pivoted furiously at the shameless squeak of compressed springs and went scarlet as a Roma tomato at a half-naked Wirt spread-eagled on the goose down duvet.  </p>
<p>
  <i>“I—I told you not to—”</i>
</p>
<p>“Accident!” Wirt yelped, flailing his arms to get upright.  Sara rolled her eyes and simply pushed him back.  With one hand she motioned for a sputtering, appalled Funderberker to avert his gaze, and with the other she yanked on a pant cuff and shucked Wirt of his trousers in a single try.  Wirt squealed like a distressed piglet; Funderberker clapped his hands over his ears and repeated in his head over and over that he did not regret remaining in the bedroom to supervise.</p>
<p>“Are you guys having a threesome in there?” Ashley accused angrily from the other side of the door.  The pounding of her knuckles on the wood bumped into Funderberker’s skull where he’d rested his desolate brow.  “You better not be.  That’d be so shitty.”</p>
<p>“Yeah—I’M the one that’s supposed to be in Wirt’s threesome!” Tyler shouted.  He immediately cried out in pain as someone inevitably whacked him upside his head.</p>
<p>“We’re doing undies!” Sara hollered back, mollifying the ravenous mob.  While Wirt was still supine, she started pulling the thigh highs up his calves; Wirt sat straight to finish rolling the nylon over his knees and inexplicably fastened the clasps of his garter belt on his first try.</p>
<p>Sara tucked her finger under one of the elastic straps, testing its elasticity, and snapped it lightly against Wirt’s leg.  “Hmm… it’s almost as if you’ve done this before.”</p>
<p>Wirt motioned for the dress, not meeting his significant other’s interested grin.  “Fetch me my ensemble, woman.”</p>
<p>Sara had to act as a post from which Wirt balanced as he stepped into the dress, shimmying it up his narrow hips.  Truly, Funderberker had chosen well—from a Dare-er’s standpoint.  The number was a satiny, sultry leopard print that might’ve been knee-high on Funderberker’s mom, but rode to mini-length on Wirt’s skyscraper lankiness.  The extra fabric in the sides ruched suggestively over his hip bones.  When he turned, noticing himself in the mirror of Funderberker’s mom’s vanity, light bounced off the fabric and crawled down his frame.  <i>Oh, no…</i></p>
<p>Did this look… kinda <i>good?</i> </p>
<p>Sara latched Wirt’s cavernous bra from the back as he fit the bust of the dress over his sternum; he knew, judging by the gaping black holes anterior to his chest, that he could fit a fifth of vodka in each bosom if he so desired.  “Why didn’t <i>my</i> boobs ever come in?” he sighed to Sara.  She responded by honking the empty cups of his bra.</p>
<p>Lastly, Wirt stepped into the heels, teetering perilously as his altitude increased by five sexy inches.  The dress’s invisible zipper glided over his behind… but snagged at his middle back.  <i>Disaster.</i>  Sara blew air out of her nose in frustration.  “Funderberker, c’mere.  Your mom’s dress is being a bitch.”</p>
<p>“<i>Jeez,</i> don’t you know how to… zip up a…”</p>
<p>Funderberker’s jaw dropped to the carpet upon witnessing Wirt mid-transformation.  Freshman year, Wirt had been one of the shortest guys in the class; currently, in stilettos, he’d fit in seamlessly with the taller members of the basketball team.  The dress’s drooping bust and that brassier were comically large on the teen boy’s skeletal thorax, but his thoroughbred’s limbs were runway ready, sheathed in black nylon that seemed to stretch for miles.  All Wirt needed was a wig and makeup, and he could walk onto any drag show with a name like Foxy Diamond or Kiki Cutabitch and be right at home.     He looked… he looked.</p>
<p>“Are you guys DONE YET?”  </p>
<p>Tyler busted down the door ten seconds after Funderberker stepped away to assist with the zipper; therefore, he and everyone behind him had the honor of observing their party host slash Wirt’s zipper up the rest of its track with the gusto of somebody starting a lawnmower.  </p>
<p>Utter silence.  Wirt clamped his forearms over his chest in an effort to prevent any uncouth glimpses of his chest.  “I did it,” he said in a small voice, as shocked as everyone ogling him.  “I <i>did it.</i>”</p>
<p>No one broke down with hysterical laughter.  No one pointed and jeered.  All were stunned, taken aback, floored, and Funderberker would not have that.</p>
<p>He wrestled his own starstruck surprise and clenched his fists.  “N—not so fast!  You think this is good enough?!”  He indicated all of Wirt with a repulsed chop of his arm, averting his eyes from the shapes of Wirt’s ankles.  “This is child’s play!  This isn’t the spirit of my Dare!  You—you have to—”</p>
<p>Sara insinuated herself between her slender stag of a man and their host; flames lit her black irises.  “He did what you asked him to.  He’s <i>done.</i>”</p>
<p>“Wrong!” Funderberker boomed.  “The Dare was ‘dress up like a lady,’ and Wirt is <i>clearly</i> still a boy in a dress.  He needs… he needs makeup!  He needs a full face!”  Frantic, Funderberker darted to the vanity and opened drawers left and right, throwing eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks and powder puffs across the desk.  He switched on the lights; they popped to maximum brightness, blinding Wirt as he frowned in outrage.  </p>
<p>“You’re nuts,” he stated, fingers worrying the hemline of his skirt.  Funderberker scoffed.</p>
<p>“What a waste it would be for you to surrender halfway through your challenge.  Boo-hoo, Miss Felicia Fellatio can’t handle a widdle blush—”</p>
<p>Wirt’s palm to his face sent Funderberker staggering into a group of onlookers who’d trickled into the bedroom, hoping for a better view.  In spite of his compromised coordination, Wirt sat as gracefully as he could onto the velvet stool and opened the first palette he touched to inspect it.</p>
<p>Sara was at his side in a blink.  She restrained Wirt’s forelock with some bobby pins and neatly stroked his flyaways behind his dish-like ears.  After humble consideration, nibbling her lower lip and humming, she uncapped a lip color and leaned in as if to apply it to Wirt herself.  </p>
<p>“No,” said Wirt, imperiously waving away the lipstick that his girlfriend proffered.  He looked Funderberker dead in the eye and watched his host’s jeering confidence die as he picked up a different shade from the vanity array.  Before uncapping his choice—a sensual merlot-red, the hue of autumn berries—Wirt held it up in a gesture reminiscent of flipping the bird.  “<i>This...</i> is my color.”</p>
<p>The first contact of lipstick on skin landed precisely at the corner of Wirt’s mouth, a clumsy initial attempt made sloppy by the gratuitous amounts of alcohol boosting his boldness; however, he recovered quickly.  Brown eyes focused as much as his fuzzed brain would allow on his own reflection… he swooped a red line over his cupid’s bow, across his lower lip… he pursed his mouth and puckered as he’d observed his mom do to spread the pigment… </p>
<p>Sara made a stunned sound.  Her fingernails dug into his bare shoulder, prompting him to glance up in the mirror to meet her enraptured expression.  </p>
<p>“Wirt,” she murmured.  She rested a palm on each of his cheeks, reverently framing his face.  “You look <i>fricken’ incredible.</i>”</p>
<p>For once in his life, Wirt agreed.</p>
<p>Rouge highlighted the angular qualities of his face.  Eyeliner deepened the dark lines of his lashes.  Setting powder gave off a fine glimmer, preserving the flawless canvas.  Sara spritzed him with hair spray for good measure—Wirt dabbed perfume behind his ears for good luck—and the Dare was complete.  </p>
<p>And the whole time the pair worked, nobody, not one person, made a peep.</p>
<p>At last, Wirt tottered to his heels with Sara’s help.  He struck the first pose to pop into his head, spreading his legs a degree wider than shoulder-width, and rotated his shoulder blades toward his spine so that his collar bones winged in graceful relief under his throat.  Sara gripped his waist possessively.  Together, they resembled a gold-medal Olympic athlete and her extremely expensive prostitute.</p>
<p>Funderberker was the first to break the awestruck quiet, his voice an unsteady croak where he clung to his friends for physical (and emotional) support.  “Wirt… you…”</p>
<p>Wirt finished the sentence for him, dropping his teal-shadowed eyelids demurely, wine-painted lips curling upward in a flirty feline smile that had never shaped itself before this momentous night.  “Won.  I <i>won,</i> Funderberker.”  He tilted his hip just <i>so,</i> and the dress shifted a scandalous two inches higher along his right thigh.  Several audience members gulped; Wirt relished the sound, relished it more than earning first chair in orchestra, more than sharing an ice cream sundae with Sara, more than life.  He winked.  “Suck my dick.”</p>
<p>And Funderberker’s wail of despair was lost under thunderous, riotous applause.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>one more chapter (an epilogue) and then I can quietly die of shame.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. the party concludes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You weren’t supposed to look… I thought you were going to… why aren’t you more...”  Funderberker failed to finish his thought several times—so weighted by defeat and disappointment was he.  It didn’t help that Wirt continued to preen like a leopard-spotted rooster before his admiring fans, turning himself this way and that to showcase his femme-fetale silhouette.  A few partygoers held a twinkle in their eyes that spoke of some deep sexual awakening.  Ashley kept hissing <i>“I wish I’d brought a camera”</i> to the girls next to her.  Sara’s knowing smirk betrayed that she knew <i>exactly</i> how lucky she was.</p>
<p>“I can choose another Dare for you,” Wirt drawled as he finished a slow 360 revolution, "but m’actually more interested in <i>Truth.</i>”  He fished the mink stole from the floor, requiring Sara’s hands to stop him from swan-diving into the carpet, and slung the fur about his shoulders.  Now he looked like an expensive prostitute who was <i>also</i> a movie star.  Funderberker wanted to eat his heart out and then hang himself with his own belt.  “So tell me some truth, Funderberker: you want me t’pop a balloon for you?”</p>
<p>The host violently <i>shushed</i> his guests, ninety percent of whom were purple with laughter.  “Oh SHUT UP, at least I don’t have a morbid graveyard kink like <i>you—</i>”</p>
<p>A harsh latex <i>SNAP</i> ruptured next to Funderberker’s ear.  He leapt a foot in the air, face the same color as bubblegum, and reflexively backhanded Tyler without looking to aim.  Tyler, holding the limp remains of an inflated condom in his fingertips, giggled too hard to retaliate and simply rubbed at the sore spot above his eye.</p>
<p>“I’m <i>sorry,</i> dude, I’ve been waiting to do that since you told us…”</p>
<p>“You should be careful,” Sara spoke up, pointing at the popped makeshift balloon.  “All this stimulation, Funderberker might accidentally—”</p>
<p>A loud siren's whoop cut off her next words.  Brandon elbowed a panting, flustered Funderberker teasingly in the side.  “Uh-oh!  The Kink Police are here to arrest you!”</p>
<p>“No,” Ashley corrected with a terrified quaver in her voice.  She’d pinched back one golden bedroom curtain wide enough to spy on the front lawn, splashing lights of red and blue across her ashen visage.  “That’s the <i>real</i> police.”</p>
<p>Everybody’s stomachs flipped upside down.  Funderberker tensed like a bowstring, prepared to snap, complexion draining white as the bedsheets.  “What?  WHAT?!”  He raced to the window himself and swore.  “Who called them?  C’mon, who’s the asshole who sent the pigs to my party?!”</p>
<p>The other party guests recoiled at his furious question.  They glanced furtively at one another, searching for the traitor.  Wirt—his anxiety harpooning him in the intestines—had the bizarre certainty that this was entirely his fault.  </p>
<p>“We have to get out of here,” Brandon mumbled into the heavy dread.  His gaze held the faraway dread of a deer about to be struck by a vehicle.  “We gotta get out, <i>right now,</i> or we’ll all be arrested.”</p>
<p>That one word—<i>arrested</i>—launched everyone into chaotic panic.  Tyler shrieked "SCATTER!" and slam-dunked his beer can and deflated condom to the floor in his haste to hightail it out of the house.  People dashed for the hall and bottlenecked almost immediately, their selfish complaints and shoving pushing flailing arms reminding Wirt of a mob trying to escape a burning theatre.  An aggressive, authoritative pounding emanated from downstairs: a policeman knocking on the front door.  Wirt reached instinctively for Sara’s hand as she tightened her grip on his waist.  </p>
<p>“We’re going to jail,” whispered the cross-dressed champion.  </p>
<p>Sara nodded, watching her peers kick the shit out of each other in their desperate bid to escape… but this was her <i>thoughtful</i> nod, not her <i>giving up</i> nod, so Wirt waited to see what she’d say.  </p>
<p>Finally, Sara turned to Funderberker.  “We need to hide in your closet.”</p>
<p>Funderberker—still staring in horrified disbelief at the cop car parked in his driveway—whirled on his heel to bare his teeth at the couple.  “Are you kidding me?  You want me to save your asses after everything you’ve put me through tonight?  <i>Sure.</i>  As if.  Why don’t you go open the door for the nice officer and take your skank of a boyfriend to the slammer—”</p>
<p>“What we’ve put <i>you</i> through?” Sara barked.  “Excuse me—do you think we hadn’t noticed how <i>nasty</i> you were to Wirt the second you let us inside?  What is your problem?”</p>
<p>Wirt, who was currently more distressed about being arrested while wearing a garter belt than addressing Funderberker’s attitude, tugged pleadingly on Sara’s hand.  “Sara, we need to find… f-find your bike.  Gotta geddout.”</p>
<p>“Listen to your boy toy,” Funderberker spat.  “Take your chances outside.  Maybe you’ll be shown mercy, given how <i>stupid</i> you both look.”</p>
<p>“Did you invite us just to be a jerk?” Sara fired back.  Accusation laced her tone like gasoline.  </p>
<p>“Maybe I did!” Funderberker cried.  His knuckles flashed toward the closest wall, but did not so much as scuff the wallpaper.  He tamped down a whimper and cradled his bruised hand toward his chest.  “Who cares!”</p>
<p>“I don’t,” said an antsy, anxiously sweating, intoxicated Wirt.</p>
<p>“I do!” argued Sara.  She peered between her boyfriend and their host, at a loss.  At Wirt’s pretty flush, the rosy color creeping up his neck to mottle the candy-pink blush on his cheekbones, she blustered a suffering sigh.  “What is <i>with</i> you two?  All you do is pick at each other and fight—”</p>
<p>“He started it,” both boys muttered sullenly.  </p>
<p>Sara growled.  “You know what?  Whatever.  We don’t have time to sort out your petty issues.  If you don’t let us hide, Funderberker, I’m going to kick you in the nuts.  And if you squeal on us to that officer, I will kick your nuts <i>harder.</i>  Understand?”    </p>
<p>“Threatening me in <i>my</i> home?  At <i>my</i> party?” Funderberker sneered.</p>
<p>Sara let Wirt go from her hold and shifted liquidly into her fighting stance: one leg forward, one leg back to balance, both fists raised to block or punch.  Strength carved her spine into a steel beam.  She was a jaguar.  A genitalia-destroying, vengeful jaguar.  The host of the bash swallowed hard, gave Wirt another hateful glower… and twitched his head toward the closet.  </p>
<p>A warm quarter-smile softened the danger in Sara’s eyes.  “Thanks, Funderberker.”</p>
<p>“Don’t mention it,” he replied dourly.  “I’m not kidding: <i>don’t</i> mention it.”</p>
<p>The host left the bedroom and weaseled around stragglers in the upstairs hall.  Sara towed her tottering, nylon-wearing beau into the closet and shut the door.</p>
<p>Everything in the cramped space reeked of luxury perfume and nice cologne, which set Wirt off sneezing instantly.  Sara tutted and wadded up a sweater to stuff over his nose.  “I don’t like the combination of rose petals and leather-tobacco, either, boyfriendo, but you’re going to give us away.”</p>
<p>“D’you think the police will come upstairs?” Wirt honked.  He took both of Sara’s shoulders.  “I am in a <i>dress.</i>  My clothes’re on the carpet.  The officer will think I’m somewhere hiding, <i>n-naked,</i> like a f-f-freak!”</p>
<p>“Or he’ll think you were abducted by aliens,” Sara teased.</p>
<p>“That’s not funny!”</p>
<p>“It’s kinda funny.”</p>
<p>
  <i>“No—”</i>
</p>
<p>The herd of underage drinkers must have shot out of all the exits, because the threatening blip of the police vehicle’s siren put Sara and Wirt’s banter to a halt.  They reflexively clung to each other and stepped deeper into the closet, so that those red-and-blue flashes wouldn’t touch them.</p>
<p>“WE SEE YOU CRAZY KIDS!  GET BACK HERE!  YOU ARE EVADING POLICE OFFICERS!”  The cops’ PA system blasted over the thumping bass of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl.”  A high, feminine scream—most likely Tyler's—ricocheted off the side of the manor, somewhere in the row of rosebushes separating Funderberker from his closest neighbor.  Wirt and Sara each gave a mental prayer for their foolish comrade.</p>
<p>"I… I can<i>not</i> be arrested in a… a <i>dress,</i> Sara," Wirt continued frantically.  "I'll never live it down.  My step-dad will… he'll…"  He couldn't come up with a scary enough possibility to speak aloud; his sparkly eyelids squinched shut, so tight that the goop of his fresh mascara left itty-bitty streaks where eyelashes brushed skin.  Air became water in his lungs.  A gasping inhale, a wheezing exhale…</p>
<p>Sara fixed the sweater to fit over Wirt's mouth as well, to act as a barrier for the bout of hyperventilating that shook his chest.  "Hey, now.  Where'd my confident, femme-presenting man go?"</p>
<p>"He's dying," Wirt gulped into the cashmere. </p>
<p>"You're not dying," Sara chided.  "You're fine.  We're getting out of here.  Nobody is going to jail.  I bet the cops stopped by because of a noise complaint, and these imbeciles are getting their damn selves in trouble by acting guilty.  But <i>we,</i>” she pointed between the two of them, “are a class act.  Cool as ice.”</p>
<p>“C-Cool as ice,” Wirt repeated, warbling.</p>
<p>“That’s right.”  Sara stood on her tiptoes to pat him on the crown, then crept away to put her ear against the door.  Five seconds passed… and she dipped her head affirmatively, encouraging Wirt to follow close behind as she slunk back into the bedroom.</p>
<p>Wirt succeeded in nabbing his discarded clothes and tailing his girlfriend out into the hall without breaking an ankle.  The hallway was a minefield of solo cups and muddy footprints; somebody’s shoe, laces untied, had been abandoned at the top of the stairs—not boding well for the fate of its unlucky Cinderella.  Under the hook of whichever filthy rap song had begun to pump from the downstairs speaker, Wirt caught the gruff tones of an officer addressing Funderberker.  </p>
<p>“...neighbors called in about all this loud music you kids are playing…”</p>
<p>Sara touched her nose and peered at Wirt over her shoulder.  “Told you,” she murmured.  Wirt’s eyes bulged and he smushed the sweater he’d been huffing over her mouth in his panic.</p>
<p>“...and <i>now</i> I’ve got three of your friends in the paddywagon.  Drinking underage.  Care to explain yourself?”</p>
<p>“Apologies, officer,” Funderberker replied.  He sounded <i>remarkably</i> sober; Wirt imagined his nemesis hanging his head contritely, hands folded in front of him, putting on the angelic act that won over half the teachers in school.  Normally, this facade would have Wirt grinding his back teeth or rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.  But tonight?  He discovered himself inwardly cheering for Funderberker’s powerful, inexplicable charm to save them all.</p>
<p>“Mind if I check things out?” the policeman asked.  “Want to ensure there’s no more intoxicated teens on the premises.”</p>
<p>“Gee, I’m not sure,” answered Funderberker innocently.  “Do you have a warrant?”</p>
<p>The officer’s foreboding tone punched Wirt in the bladder.  “I have probable cause, son.”</p>
<p>“Oh.  In that case… why don’t we start upstairs?”</p>
<p>Nope—Wirt took it back.  Funderberker was a freaking <i>snake.</i></p>
<p>“He’s going to bring the officer up here!” Wirt whisper-shrilled.  He hid his face in the space between Sara’s shoulder blades, shivering in his stilettos.  They were dead!  HE was dead!  He was dead, in a DRESS, and his mom and stepdad would find out he’d been drinking at a party he wasn’t supposed to be at and he was in DRESS holy SHIT—</p>
<p>“In here!”  Sara dived past the space where the stairs met the upper floor and into the next hall.  Wirt strangled a cry and hobbled in her wake as silently as physically possible, glad that the <i>clomp</i> of the policeman’s shoes entering the mansion hid the off-kilter drum of his heels.   </p>
<p>He should’ve realized that the room Sara slipped into was Funderberker’s before he sequestered himself inside.  He’d <i>been</i> in this room, in middle school, back when he still wasn’t sure if he despised the rich boy completely or not.  The faint familiarity of the space—mostly unchanged, except for the signs of Funderberker’s high school hobbies replacing those of childhood—made Wirt a bit seasick.  He paused under the ceiling fan and hugged himself.</p>
<p>“Is… is it wrong for us to scram, and leave Funderberker alone to deal with the c-cops?”</p>
<p>Sara was jimmying the window open, one of her knees propped on the sill.  She squinted at him.  “Babe.  You can have a moral crisis, or run from the law with me, but you can’t do both.”</p>
<p>Funderberker’s space-themed alarm clock displayed the time in bright blue numbers.  If Wirt’s mom were to check on him now, it would be Murder-Your-Disobedient-Son-AM.  “I know he’s a jerk, but…”</p>
<p>“He <i>is</i> a jerk.”  Sara grunted and lifted the sash all the way.  Her efforts bumped a handful of medieval figurines off the desk near her leg, which Wirt clumsily picked up.  A pinch at the base of the window screen, and Sara popped it out of place to remove the last barrier between an approaching arrest and the brisk summer air, swishing in from the deep dark woods of the metro park.  </p>
<p>“Wh...what if that’s my fault, though?  What if he’s been a jerk because I was a jerk first?”  Everything was spinning again, the corners of the walls tilting sideways as Wirt stood—or maybe <i>he</i> was tilting?  Or… ugh.  Wincing, he sat down hard on Funderberker’s professionally made bed, looking forlorn as a girl who’d been stood up at prom.  “Y’know I wuzz… <i>was</i> not the b-best person, growing up.  Maybe it was I that poisoned what might’ve been a boyhood bond, a kinship of awkward souls seeking approval…”</p>
<p>Sara’s sigh weighed two tons.  She offered him a look that was as fond as it was exasperated while she wiggled beyond the window frame.  “When you start waxing all sad-poetic, it is definitely time to go.  Get over here—there’s a slope of roof we can shimmy down, as long as you <i>carefully</i> drape those hot gams off the edge instead of flying off the gutters.”</p>
<p>“‘Kay…” Wirt dragged himself to the window.  Heard the brusque inquiries of the officer reaching the second floor, shoes thumping toward the master bedroom.  Understood that <i>this</i> room might be next when Funderberker and the policeman discovered the master empty.  </p>
<p>His jolt of fear sprung him out of the bedroom window and onto the roof.  Sara crouched nimbly to the side, fingers fisted in some climbing ivy, spotting her beau; however, she reached for him too late as one of Wirt’s deadly heels caught on a shingle—and he went <i>down.</i></p>
<p>Spotted satin rode all the way up his legs and hips as he body-slid toward the drop, revealing thighs and boxers and garter belt in a shameless display.  Wirt keened through his incisors—too terrified of the cops to release a proper scream— and scrabbled for purchase somewhere, anywhere, until he slammed his elbow into the gutter and aborted his fall.  His lower body swung hard into the side of the house.  One of his stilettos unhooked from his heel and landed in a bush.</p>
<p>Sara climbed catlike down behind him as if she scaled rooftops in her spare time, horror taut in each fiber of her frame.  “Not a great moment for a strip tease, sweetie!  Stay there, all right?  I’ll give you the signal!” </p>
<p>She lowered herself until she mirrored his exact position, only with one thousand times more finesse, and let go of the gutter to plummet into the bushes just underneath him.  Clearly spared any broken bones, the feisty girl sent him two thumbs-up and coached him from the grass.  “You’re so tall, there’s barely any more space for you to drop.  You might get leaves up your butt, though…”</p>
<p>Wirt implored any god that would listen to protect him from a broken neck.  He slipped from the gutter.</p>
<p>Thankfully, no foliage splintered his underpants.  The nylon stockings and designer shoes, on the other hand, were history.</p>
<p>“I can’t return these!” he moaned to Sara, jogging after her barefoot across the backyard with a snapped Jimmy Choo heel flopping in one hand.  They seemed to be the only delinquent guests left on the premises, unless more people were secretly hiding in the mansion.  The danger of being the last fish in the barrel lent more speed to Wirt’s limbs; at least when <i>everybody</i> was scattering, he and Sara might have vanished under the safety of numbers!</p>
<p>“Not important.  Do you see my bike?”  Sara screened herself behind the arch of an impressive rosebush, snooping around its glossy leaves to the front lawn and street.  “Shoot… if someone stole it, I’m gonna kill them—”</p>
<p>“I see it!  It’s by the fire hydrant!”  Wirt pointed excitedly.  “<i>Ouch…</i> I think I might’ve bruised m’self…”</p>
<p>The fire hydrant sat four yards or so outside the red-blue-violet whir of police car lights.  Sara’s bike had been knocked over and blocked the sidewalk like a downed animal, its front wheel angled to the starry sky.  Determined, Sara gripped Wirt’s wrist and set her jaw.  “Stay close to me.”</p>
<p>The garden could only offer so much coverage.  Bushes were trimmed shorter toward the outer perimeter of the lawn and rapidly trickled into spouts of lilies and tulips that came no higher than Sara’s knees.  As much as the pair hunched over, moving slow as tortoises so as not to draw the eye of the officer currently handcuffing one of their peers over the hood of his Ford Crown Victoria, they realized that their only hope was to run for it.</p>
<p>They made it to the bike in strides that broke state sprint records.  Wirt had approximately eight seconds to feel immensely impressed with himself for not shattering his lower limb or spraining his ankles until an irate law-enforcing bellow shut down his pride.  </p>
<p>“HOLD IT!  YOU LADIES!  WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”</p>
<p>“Go Sara!” Wirt shouted, helmet unbuckled and askew on his head.  He’d jumped behind his girlfriend and wrapped his arms around her like a spidermonkey, heedless of the new slashes he tore into his tights.  “Pedal for our lives!”</p>
<p>Sara didn’t need the extra boost.  She kicked off the ground and <i>hauled,</i> cutting through the grass and around the side of the neighbor’s property to whizz down the next street—which branched off into an unlit metro park side-road.  </p>
<p>The bike arrowed into the blackness.  Wirt—who usually could not stand the woods at night, their oppressive gravity and the caging dome of their branches overhead—dutifully hugged Sara’s midsection with all his strength and swallowed his tongue for the ride.  As long as he wasn't alone, he had no reason to be scared.  None at all.  He’d always been safe hiking these trails.  Greg had always returned home from his lone, spontaneous forest adventures.  If their other choice was risking the main roads with the police, there was no choice at all.  </p>
<p>They glided, gaining speed, through the path that ran by the central parking lot and the duck pond.  No street lamps lent guidance—yet the moon frosted ivory-edged shapes out of nothingness, like chalk on black paper.  Wheels whirred over silver-rippled puddles and crunched over clusters of fallen leaves.  The scent of mud and moss combed away the perfume wafting off Wirt’s skin.  Crickets chirped.  Frogs croaked.  No sirens, no angry voices booming over a PA system, no teenagers egging each other on…</p>
<p>No terrible, twisting antlers.  No claws to drag him to hell.  No ghosts, demons, spirits...</p>
<p>Sara powered the bike uphill, beyond a final wall of ancient oaks, and they were back in civilization.  Wirt drank oxygen as if he'd emerged from his own grave.  A few more turns, and they were on his street: sleepy, safe, and cop-free.  Early-rising songbirds twittered in anticipation of a sun that needed at least another two hours to rise.  The porchlight of his house was still off—not expecting anyone to return home, because nobody was supposed to be out of bed.  </p>
<p>Sara was panting, sweat plastering her tank top to her torso like a second skin.  She had to call Wirt’s name three times before he snapped out of his post-panic paralysis.</p>
<p>“I’m Wirt,” he blurted stupidly, tongue tacky as wet cotton.  “Oh, shit.  We d-ditched the cops.  We ran from the <i>law.</i>”</p>
<p>“I biked from the law,” Sara corrected him, stomping her kickstand, “and my thighs are on fire.  So I’m afraid I must bid adieu to you, my leopard-print princess.”</p>
<p>Wirt nuzzled into the damp nape of her neck before swinging his leg off her bike.  He observed, with paradoxical embarrassed pride, that he left a smear of merlot-red against her skin—just below her hairline.  His thumb rubbed at the mark to remove it… and then he impulsively yanked his girlfriend forward to lay a sloppy kiss on her glistening forehead, her cheek, and her laughing mouth.  </p>
<p>“Thanks for the rosettes,” Sara chortled, lightly pushing him back.  “Get in bed before you’re missed.  I still have to bike home…”</p>
<p>“You can stay over,” Wirt suggested huskily.  He braced his hands on her handlebars, holding her focus.  “Rest your legs.”</p>
<p>She tossed her head back at that—exposing her throat for another perfect red leopard-spot—and shoved him for good measure.  “Where has Drunk Wirt been all my high school life?  You are a <i>riot</i>  You better not get lame when we start college, okay?”</p>
<p>A thread of melancholy sewed itself into Wirt’s shy smile.  Hesitating to walk up to his front steps just yet, he lingered on the sidewalk, concrete cold beneath his toes.  “Hey… Sara?”</p>
<p>With a <i>click,</i> she’d knocked back her kickstand, already turned toward the direction of her own home.  The streetlights shone amber off her lovely dark skin, reflected orange sparks from her irises, and backlit the crest of her mohawk with a fiery halo.  The muscles of her arms might’ve been sculpted by Michaelangelo.  His avenging angel.  Best friend.  Lover.  Darling.  “Yeah?  What is it, boyfriend?”</p>
<p>Wirt swallowed an unexpected lump.  “Th-Thanks for taking me to th’ party.  I never… I never thought people <i>saw</i> me, y’know, and tunnight I f-felt… seen.  It was nice.”</p>
<p>“Silly,” Sara told him softly.  “I’ve always seen you.”</p>
<p>She skimmed away from him, down the street to turn a corner out of sight.  Wirt continued to stand in a giddy daze for ten more seconds.  His high, whispered, under-breath squeal persisted as he skipped up to his porch, slipped through his unlocked front door, and padded down the hallway.</p>
<p>The first thing he did prior to stealthing into his own bedroom was peek in on his brother.  Greg habitually kept his door cracked so he could hear everyone wake up and not miss out; Wirt knew precisely the amount of pressure to apply to the door to avoid making it squeak on its hinges.  He held his heavily alcohol-infused breath, moving his watchful brown eye past the jamb…</p>
<p>The cozy glow from Jason Funderburker’s tank—the frog, not the boy—warmed the ladder of Greg’s bunk bed.  The floor, as usual, was more mess than carpet.  Open books layered over one another like sheets of shale along a riverbed, ranging in subject from nature to history to cartoon-drawing tutorials; stuffed animals and figurines littered the spaces in between, some holding an arrangement that made Wirt suspect his sibling had been playing “animal band” again; between pages and under discarded socks he glimpsed singular maple leaves and smooth rocks and a twig Greg had been trying to whittle with a butter knife.  Nothing appeared to have been disturbed… and Greg, wrapped like a nine-year-old burrito in his blanket, breathed the steady rhythm of somebody <i>deeply</i> asleep.</p>
<p>“Thank fucking god,” Wirt whispered to himself.  He blew a kiss to his unawares brother, impressed that he had enough pigment left on his lips to daub on his palm, and shuffle-stumbled off to his room.</p>
<p>Unlike Greg, Wirt routinely kept his door <i>closed.</i>  Resisting the urge to slide down the wood to the floor, he lurched the last handful of <i>agonizing</i> steps to his bed… tossed back his sheets… and dumped himself unceremoniously, face-first, onto his pillow.  The blessed softness of his mattress seemed to surround his poor strained body like a hug.  His final thought preceding unconsciousness was one of victory, soundly earned in the face of all his petty, anxious fears.  He’d done what freshman Wirt—<i>pre-Unknown</i> Wirt, afraid of his shadow and self-isolating and sad—would have only dreamt of doing.  He imagined his younger self soaking in this amazing transformation in awe.  Starstruck.  Hopeful.  He smiled into his pillowcase.</p>
<p>“I’m awesome,” Wirt sighed… and peacefully drifted to sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I lied, at least one more chapter/epilogue to tie it all up.</p>
<p>I'm amazed that people saw the tags "shitpost" and "crack" and stuck around to leave a kudos.  Thanks, y'all.  This break into no-stakes silly writing was a lot of fun  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morning threw knives of sunshine past the sliver between Wirt’s curtains and stabbed him through the eyelids.  Agony ruptured inside his skull.  A groan of pure suffering crawled, slug-like, from a mouth that felt coated in the stuff his stepdad used to seal the bathroom tile.  <i>Gross.</i>  He should climb out of bed and brush his teeth or—  </p>
<p>Nausea tackled him in the guts at the first tentative twitch Wirt made.  A louder groan rose from his twisted bowels as a cry for help or plea for death—or both—and he ground the heels of his palms into his sore eyes as if that might quash the atom-bomb pressure behind his eyeballs.  Why… why did he feel like <i>shit?</i>  Is this what drinking felt like all the time?  Why the <i>fuck</i> did anyone ever party?!</p>
<p>When Greg burst into his room unannounced (as he was wont to do, regardless of how many times Wirt screamed at him for it), the best Wirt had managed in five solid minutes of whimpering and gagging back puke was to claw himself three inches across his mattress.  Each contraction of muscles threatened to send him spewing the entire length of his intestines onto the floor.  His headache pounded in time with his miserable pulse.  Wirt was not even aware that Greg was standing soberly over his corpse until his little brother politely cleared his throat—the tiny sound hitting Wirt’s temple like a bullet.</p>
<p>“Wirt,” Greg whispered.  Sandpaper on a chalkboard would have sounded more gentle.  “Are you dying?”</p>
<p>“Yyyyes,” Wirt croaked pathetically.  The putrid tang of fermented berries stuck to his tongue.  <i>Whole beer fruit basket, indeed.</i>  He wiped at his eyes again and grimaced; what on earth was all this… <i>grease</i> smeared on his skin?  Sweat?  Had he actually vomited in his sleep?  Was he rapidly decaying before Greg’s innocent eyes?  If he was turning into human soup could we maybe speed the process up a little bit because being alive right now was the worst possible punishment imaginable.   “Jesus… what time is it?”</p>
<p>Greg plopped himself on the bed next to him, and Wirt had to muffle his tortured bellow into his pillowcase as the mattress heaved like a ship on a choppy sea.  The unexpected cool weight of an amphibian placed on his bare shoulders was <i>bliss</i> compared to everything else wracking Wirt’s poor frame.  “It’s ten o’clock.  Mom told me to come wake you up so we can have breakfast together.”</p>
<p>“Break… fast?”  Wirt curled weakly into a fetal position, forcing Jason Funderburker (the frog, not the boy) to slide awkwardly off his back; undeterred, the grand bullfrog cuddled up and uttered a low <i>rrrop</i> of support.</p>
<p>“Mom made waffles,” Greg informed him cheerfully.  He started doing that cute thing where he bounced in place, unable to contain his excitement, and Wirt frantically clutched his headboard as if it were the only thing preventing him from having a stroke.  “Dad got out chocolate chips and blueberries and… oh, jeez, you really are dying huh?”</p>
<p>A small palm on Wirt’s forehead, slightly sticky with maple syrup.  Wirt shuddered.  “I’ll come down in, like, ten minutes… okay, Greg?  Give me <i>ten</i> minutes to—<i>yeugh</i>—get out of bed and I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>“But you love waffles!  You know Dad will eat the rest of the batter if you’re not there to claim it!”</p>
<p>“Whatever!  Can’t you see I’m in agony?!”</p>
<p>Greg hummed, concerned, and stared over Wirt’s hip at his pet bullfrog.  “Not pumped for waffles, is that it?  Okay.  This is a pretty strange situation,” the little boy declared.</p>
<p>“Being hungover isn’t weird,” Wirt growled defensively.  He picked up his pillow and stuffed his head under it, muffling the surliness of his tone.  “I’m a teenager.  Teenagers get hangovers.  It’s a… when you party hard… you’re <i>nine,</i> you wouldn’t get it.”</p>
<p>Greg’s eyebrows jumped up.  “Hungover?  Oh, no,” he said brightly.  “I was talking about your dress.”</p>
<p>...Dress?</p>
<p>
  <i>DRESS?!</i>
</p>
<p>Adrenalin momentarily scorched through Wirt’s dehydrated pain and seared inescapable clarity into his alcohol-fuzzed mind.  His hands clutched at the fabric clinging to his body—fabric that was smooth and leopard-spotted—and below the too-short hemline he was wearing thigh-high nylons snagged with runs, and there were <i>makeup stains</i> painted gaudily over his sheets, and <i>oh yeah</i> that’s because Wirt took that STUPID DARE at Funderberker’s where he and Sara ran from the cops—</p>
<p>He couldn’t let his mom or stepfather see him like this!</p>
<p><i>“Greg you cannot under any circumstances tell mom or your dad about—”</i> </p>
<p>“Hang in there, Wirt, help is on the way!”</p>
<p>Greg zipped out the door with an undeniably mischievous cackle, abandoning Wirt with no support except for Jason Funderburker (the frog, not the boy), who could only gurgle at the doomed teenager and squish a sympathetic webbed foot against Wirt’s rouged cheek.  This meant that Wirt had all of twenty seconds before someone barged into his bedroom to behold him in this unholy, most disgraced state.  They’d ground him for a week.  A month.  The rest of his life.  He had to put regular clothes on and wash his face!  He had to get out of BED!</p>
<p>Wirt gritted his teeth as if he were psyching himself up to remove a dagger from his side and swung his scantily clad legs off his mattress.  Sitting upright spun his head like a top, yet through sheer force of will he succeeded in pulling one stocking all the way down to his foot—<i>after</i> remembering that he had to unclip his garter belt.  With a flick of his ankle the nylon sheath flipped across the room to land on his desk; the other stocking followed suit, slithering onto the carpet like a snake’s gossamer shed, and then he held back tears as he reached around behind himself to tug at the zipper of his dress…</p>
<p>It snagged after hissing down a paltry two inches below his shoulder blades.  Now Wirt saw that under the dress’s gaping bust was a bra, also hooked where he couldn’t reach, and he threw back his head and succumbed to despair.  </p>
<p>The doorknob jiggled.  A light rap of knuckles thunked from the hallway, which to Wirt was the knock of Death’s hand.  “Uh-huh?  Wh-who is it?”</p>
<p>“Your stepdad,” came the expected answer.  Wirt’s head drooped forward so that his chin rested slightly above his non-existent cleavage.  “Greg said someone needed to check on you.  Ya doing okay, buddy?  Mind if I come in?”</p>
<p>What was the use of telling that man “no”?  He’d only be more suspicious.  Better to get this death sentence over with.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Wirt muttered dejectedly.  As a panicked afterthought he rapidly added, “I’m NOT hungover.”    </p>
<p>To his credit, his stepfather Jonathan did not instantly berate his stepson when he entered the room and observed Wirt filthy and dressed like a hooker.  He did not betray the rage and disappointment he must surely have felt to have a problem child like Wirt under his responsibility; instead, he quietly stepped in to click the door shut at his back.  </p>
<p>Ah, that was nice: they would have some privacy while Jonathan verbally flayed him.</p>
<p>Wirt’s stepfather pursed his lips thoughtfully.  His voice was the muted, steady grumble of someone who already knew more than enough.  “Heard some interesting news on the radio this morning.  Apparently, a party was busted before sunrise today.  Lots of underage drinking and shenanigans going on.  Now, Wirt… you wouldn’t happen to be the sex worker seen at that illegal party, would you?”</p>
<p>Wirt’s organs attempted to turn inside out.  “S… s-sex worker?  <i>Me?</i>”</p>
<p>“Your mother and I would never judge you,” Jonathan continued soberly, “but you need to be honest with us.  We can help you, buddy.  You don’t have to sell your body.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t—I’m not a—it was a <i>dare—</i>”</p>
<p>Jonathan’s expression wavered.  Kinked up at the corners.  A tenuous quaver that must have been an undercurrent of shame or anger gripped his syllables.  “We love you, Wirt.  We know that… that you’re a good kid…”  He hid his mouth behind his fist.  The crow’s feet by his eyes wrinkled further.  “And we know that you’re at that age where you might want to expl—<i>ha</i>—explore, ha—<i>sorry,</i> haha, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you—”</p>
<p>Wirt jolted stiffly upright, indignant and scarlet-faced.  “You’re <i>laughing</i> at me?!”</p>
<p>A helpless gut-busting peel from Jonathan, who was now trying to stifle the uproar in earnest behind his arm.  “Nooo-ho-ho-ho!  Your mother and I don’t care if you wear a—<i>ha ha!</i>—a dress, but you should see-<i>hee-hee the look on your face right now!”</i></p>
<p>“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t get my eyeliner straight,” Wirt pouted, shaken.  He could feel his complexion boiling and it was only getting worse the more his stepfather giggled like a sleep-deprived schoolgirl.  All the mockery he would’ve expected from his teenage peers had manifested in the man Wirt had grudgingly come to respect.  And that <i>damn headache...</i> Wirt almost wished he’d be grounded already, so he could go back to bed and pass away properly.  </p>
<p>“You look like a leopard callgirl,” Jonathan wheezed, dabbing at tears.  </p>
<p>Wirt threw his hands up—and regretted that gesture when the room tilted ninety degrees in his beer-addled perception.  “It looked b-better when I first put everything on!  And I’ll have you know I <i>won</i> the dare, so, ha!  Punish me all you want!  Whatever you do can’t be worse than what I’m going through right now!”</p>
<p>“Ahh… I think you’re right, bud.  Bad hangover?”  Could that be… <i>sympathy</i> poking through his stepfather’s cruel mirth?  Was that a half-smile of understanding softening the hyena’s facade?  Wirt dared not hope that he was getting out this humiliation with less than forty lashes and waterboarding; he’d consciously decided to have fun, to break the rules, to <i>rebel,</i> and now he would endure the consequences of those actions.  Nothing he did held any weight unless there were consequences, right?  That’s what made his rebellion real.  Meaningful.  </p>
<p>“Are you going to stop me from seeing Sara?”  For Wirt a few days ago, that would be a primal fear.  For Wirt today… he’d snuck out of the house successfully last night.  He’d served Jason Funderberker a big fat slice of humble pie.  The challenging spark in his bloodshot eyes promised his stepfather that he’d do it again.</p>
<p>Jonathan chuckled, scratching at his morning chin-scruff.  “That depends.  Are you planning on getting plastered before you’re twenty-one again any time soon?”</p>
<p>A vehement shake of Wirt’s throbbing head.  “No.  Definitely not.”</p>
<p>And it spoke of how well the two understood each other after more than six years that Jonathan readily believed him, and that Wirt saw no reason to lie.  </p>
<p>“Alright, then.  Drink plenty of water and get some rest.  Hydration is the only way to feel any better,” Wirt’s stepfather advised, turning the doorknob.  “We’ll save some waffles for you if you can keep them down later.”</p>
<p>Wirt blinked through a spell of dizziness.  “You’re… not grounding me?  I’m not in trouble?”</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re in trouble young man,” his stepfather growled—but it was a play-growl, the same one he used when he wrestled with Greg in the living room.  “Your mother and I are going to have a talk about this, and then you’re <i>really</i> gonna get it.”</p>
<p>“That’s fair.”  A renewed bloom of redness blotched Wirt’ ears when he asked his next question.  “Could you… could you do me a favor?  Th-This zipper is stuck, and…”</p>
<p>
  <i>“Is my precious baby boy feeling ill?”</i>
</p>
<p>The bedroom door swung open into Jonathan’s side, nearly knocking him off his feet.  Wirt’s mom swept dramatically into the room, sporting chestnut hair in disarray and a blueberry stain on the couple’s pajama shirt that matched her husband’s.  She seemed not to notice Wirt’s trashy outfit and launched herself at him with abandon while wailing in theatrics that would put a soap opera starlet to shame.  </p>
<p>“My poor, darling boy!  Too sick to join his family for breakfast!  What has this world come to?”</p>
<p>“Mom,” Wirt wheezed, “you’re crushing me—”</p>
<p>She took his face lovingly in her hands and inhaled an enormous gasp.  “Look at these dark circles over your eyes!  Were you punched in the face by a clown?  My baby, my perfect child, so viciously attacked…”</p>
<p>“IT LOOKED BETTER WHEN I FIRST PUT EVERYTHING ON—”</p>
<p>“Honey, he was wearing stockings too,” Jonathan squealed, picking up a nylon to show to his wife.  “He really did have this whole outfit planned out, can you believe it?”</p>
<p>“How would those have even stayed up?” Wirt’s mom inquired, heedless of how green her perfect child was turning as a result of her man-handling.  “Those need a garter belt… <i>Wirt.</i>  Are you wearing a garter belt?”</p>
<p>“Just ground me,” Wirt begged, close to tears.  “I’m sorry I snuck out.  I’m sorry I drank.  I’ve never been more sorry in my life.  Please just get out of my room and let me choke on my own vomit and die.”</p>
<p>Motherly hands petted Wirt’s sweat-damp hair back from his temples.  The ruthless woman looked over her shoulder to address her husband, unconcerned with hiding the obvious smile stretching across her face.  “Weren’t we talking about this the other night?  How our Wirt never does anything?”  She turned back to her son to smooch him loudly on the forehead.  “Oh, sweetheart.  We know you feel awful.  You <i>shouldn’t</i> have snuck out… next time, if you want to go to a party with your friends, just let us know that you’re leaving—okay?  I know we’ve taught you to be honest with us.  And next time, DON’T drink.  And if you do drink, DON’T get in a car with someone else who was drinking, and DON’T drive yourself, and—”</p>
<p>“Did somebody order some waffles?”</p>
<p>Greg, not one to be left out of anything, skipped into the gathering with a plate stacked four waffles high in one hand and a bottle of butter-flavored maple syrup in the other.  He veered around his dad to hike himself back onto Wirt’s mattress—precariously balancing his offerings—and beamed so effusively that Wirt <i>knew</i> his sibling had orchestrated this on purpose.</p>
<p>One waffle went right into Jason Funderburker’s wide bullfrog mouth.  Another was speared on a fork and shoved under Wirt’s nose.  Jonathan slyly reached over his wife’s shoulder to grab a third waffle, which they split in half to share, scattering crumbs on Wirt’s carpet.  </p>
<p>Wirt glowered at his ridiculous family through a suspicious mist, throat thick with something other than what he’d drank at the party.  “You’re all the worst,” he informed them hoarsely.</p>
<p>They converged on him like wolves—jostling each other to laugh and tousle his messed-up hair and smother him with kisses and teasing, enacting retribution for his rule-breaking through copious obnoxious affection.  And when Wirt could no longer physically withstand the anguish of bodies crushing him from every side, when his insides begged for mercy, he fought free to jog down the hall and into the bathroom that he and Greg shared to hurl noisily into the toilet.   </p>
<p>His family followed him as a unit and cheered encouragement over the sounds of his violent heaving.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Senior year began in much the same way as other high school years had begun, with two major major exceptions.</p>
<p>One: as seniors, Wirt and his fellow upperclassmen gave significantly less of a shit as they entered the halls, cocksure in the throes of budding senioritis.  Nobody spoke of college, not yet, not when their skin yet glowed with summer warmth and the sky was so brilliantly blue out the classroom windows.  Wirt walked to the first class he shared with Sara arm-in-arm, and realized that the anxiety that usually plagued him at the beginning of the school year had quieted its chatter in the back of his mind.  </p>
<p>Two: Wirt had ascended from “that kid who almost drowned” to <i>legendary</i> senior status.  Incoming freshman who had no business knowing his name made room for him when he passed by their lockers.  Those who’d been at Jason’s party shot him enthusiastic finger-guns without an iota of sarcasm, or went out of their way to high-five him or slap him on the back.  Sara teased that Wirt would have to start beating his admirers off with a stick.  Wirt was so astronomically astonished that he <i>had</i> admirers that he wore a tipsy, delirious grin for most of the first day back.</p>
<p>That grin only wavered halfway through lunch.  Wirt should have known that Jason Funderberker would have it out for him.</p>
<p>“Well, well, well—if it isn’t our resident trollop.  Surprised you didn’t opt for a skirt today, Wirt.”    </p>
<p>Everyone who’d been snatched at Jason’s party had returned home the next morning, Wirt learned after he’d fully recovered from his hellish hangover; Sara had let him know after he made a guilty, worried phone call.  Though those students all suffered varying harsh punishments from their legal guardians, all of them had been present to wink at Wirt between English Lit, American Government, and Algebra II.  So far, Funderberker was the exception to the rule.  Wirt cut his nemesis a dry glance over his bag of Cheetos.  Sara did not bother to look up from her sandwich.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon, Funderberker,” Wirt answered civilly.  “Pleasure to see that your parents didn’t murder you.”</p>
<p>Funderberker leered at him, grip bending the lunch tray he held in his hands as he stood over the boy that ruined his party—or made it fantastic, depending on whom you asked.  “Luckily for me, my mom is best friends with Officer O’Malley.  No mark on <i>my</i> record, thanks for asking.  Shame you weren’t caught running from the crime scene.”</p>
<p>Wirt flicked Cheeto dust casually off his fingers.  “You wanna do this, Funderberker?  You want to spend another year hating each other’s guts and finishing a pissing contest neither of us remembers starting?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you dare act all high and mighty!” Funderberker slapped his lunch tray on Wirt’s table, earning him a frigid glare from Sara.  “Think you’re hot shit because you defied death and put on a dress—big deal!  The fame will wear off in three days, tops, and then you’ll be back to the same stuttering nerd who can’t read aloud in front of the class… what are you doing?”</p>
<p>After unzipping his backpack, Wirt presented Funderberker with a dry cleaner’s bag, tied in a knot at the bottom to keep his school supplies from messing up the contents.  He handed the hanger to his enemy, who accepted it and gawked, dumbfounded, not quite able to process what he was holding.</p>
<p>“Your mom’s dress,” Wirt clarified.  “I had it dry cleaned.  The guy there is a tailor, so he was able to fix some stuff with the zipper.  It’s as good as new, now.  And your mom’s bra and garter belt are in there as well.”</p>
<p>A long, slow blink from Funderberker.  “I’m not paying you back for that,” he grated out after a beat.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to.  Sorry I couldn’t return it sooner—it was a tight turn around for the cleaner.  The only things I couldn’t save were the nylons, but I can replace those too if you want.”</p>
<p>“I…”  Funderberker’s countenance suggested that he had no clue how to proceed.  He unzipped the bag about halfway down—checking the contents—and choked at the flash of spots that met him.  Then, red-faced and tight-lipped, he jammed the dry cleaner’s bag into his backpack, picked his lunch tray back up, and quick-marched to the trash cans to discard his leftovers.</p>
<p>Sara bumped her shoulder against Wirt’s once Funderberker had stormed out of the cafeteria.  “Look at you, being the bigger man.  Proud of you.”</p>
<p>“He <i>did</i> throw an awesome party,” Wirt admitted sheepishly.  “I actually have a lot to thank him for.  Not trying to lead the cops to us or trying to humiliate me, obviously, but…”  He shrugged, and Sara pecked him on the cheek.  “It was fun.  I’m glad we went.”</p>
<p>They concluded their lunch peacefully, able to catch Tyler as he whizzed by them to take his lunch period with Jasmine and Brandon.  While Brandon took some time to chat up Sara about their French syllabus, Tyler snared an arm around Wirt’s shoulders and tugged him into a one-sided bearhug that compressed every square inch of oxygen out of Wirt’s lungs.  </p>
<p>“Wirt!  My MAN!  Or should I say—my <i>WO</i>man!  How are you, dude?  Didn’t see you in the paddywagon, so guess that means you got off free, huh?”</p>
<p>“Not really,” Wirt gasped.  “Parents found out that I snuck out.  Little brother ratted on me.  Can’t… <i>breathe</i>…”</p>
<p>“Whoops, sorry buddy.”  Tyler released him.  They’d known each other peripherally since Tyler had moved to town in seventh grade; Wirt couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d been so intimidated by this golden retriever in a tall jock’s body.  Better to start a late friendship than never.  “Anyway—I know you’re probably recovering from Funderberker’s totally rad rager, but I just heard from Dennis Oberman that there’s a group going bowling this Friday after school gets out.  It’s gonna be mostly soccer players, but they’re all cool!  And Sara is invited too, that goes without saying.”</p>
<p>Wirt’s heart leapt.  Did the smile on his face look as stupid as it felt?  He could get used to the joy of being included in plans, without the initial socially anxious terror that usually accompanied an invitation anywhere... </p>
<p>“No alcohol this time,” Jasmine assured him and Sara.  “Age-appropriate drinks only.  Although, Wirt, you’re welcome to come in drag.  Encouraged, in fact.”</p>
<p>“Mmm, that might have to be something special just between the two of us,” Sara teased, pulling Wirt’s sleeve to tow him toward his next class.  “I can’t share this minx with <i>everyone.”</i></p>
<p>“Selfish,” Tyler complained.  </p>
<p>The rest of Wirt’s day went beautifully.  So did the rest of his week.  Funderberker avoided him wherever possible, yet he appeared to be struggling with an internal confusion that prevented him from sniping publicly at Wirt.  It was doubtful the two of them would ever click as friends… but the instinct to claw out his own eyes at the mention of Funderberker’s name dulled more and more, until Wirt accidentally said “good morning” to Jason in home room and half the class snapped their necks to ogle at him.  </p>
<p>Wirt’s parents made sure Wirt never forgot the folly of his idiot teenage actions.  Jonathan repeatedly asked if Wirt wanted to crack a cold one after school, and Greg amused himself hiding bottle caps throughout Wirt’s room for most of September.  Wirt’s mom never left the house for date night before consulting her eldest son about her outfit.  </p>
<p>Confidence remained in Wirt’s spirit through Homecoming—when Sara insisted on both of them going dress shopping instead of Wirt wearing a suit—and bolstered him through the lingering spookiness of Halloween, when Greg led the way to the cemetery for their yearly tombstone ghost-story party.  A key part of Wirt had been polished toward the end of summer, a puzzle piece of himself that had come out of the lake with him and waited, for years, for him to figure out how it fit.  He’d stopped being that scared, lonely boy he once was years ago… so who was he now?  Someone entirely new, forged in the fire of a single out-of-control bash?  An improved version of the same young man, coming into his own the way wine ages to its best flavor?</p>
<p>Perhaps it didn’t matter.  If Wirt had learned anything from his life—and from that one crazed night on 2325 Orchid Way—it was that he <i>did</i> have the guts to face the unknown…</p>
<p>And look fabulous doing it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We did it, pals!  We got to the end of this lengthy, shameless shitpost!</p>
<p>I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing.  </p>
<p>Enjoy your beautiful boy, Whiggity.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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